UC-NRLF 


^ rryrv-     H-<^u  ^^^t_^  ■-,^_ 


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THE  DREAM-ROAD 


AND    OTHER    VERSES 


BY 


WILLIAM  D.  GOOLD 


BOSTON 
SHERMAN,   FRENCH  ^  COMPANY 

1910 


Copyright,  1910 
Sherman,  French  &  Company 


TO 

MY  WIFE 


ivil9i942 


CONTENTS 


PAGB 

THE  DREAM-ROAD 1 

THE  OPENING  DOOR 3 

SO  GROWS  MY  LOVE 4 

THE  LAMBS  AND  THE  SHEPHERD       .        .  5 

A  TRAGEDY 6 

THE  ECHO 7 

MARTIUS  MENSIS 8 

IN  LIFE'S  FOREST 9 

MY  ACTINIDIA 10 

CRUCIFIED 12 

HE  IS  RISEN 14 

A  FLOWER  OF  NEW  ENGLAND      ...  16 

THE  SACRED  HILLS 17 

A  DAY  OF  THE  LONG  AGO     ....  18 

THE  MARCH  OF  THE  MEN  IN  BLUE    .        .  20 

O  NIGHT  THE  DARKEST  EARTH  HAS  SEEN  22 

A  TRIBUTE 24 

RECOMPENSE 26 

THE  WEARY  TEACHER 27 

THE  FLOWER  TRANSPLANTED      ...  28 

WHY  THE  BIRDS  SING 29 

THE  CALLING  WATER 30 

ABSENCE 32 

MOTHER'S  BAKING  DAY 34 

A  SUMMER  NOON 38 

THE  WOOD  ROAD 40 

THERE  IS  MY  HOME 42 

BURIED  TREASURE 43 

FATHER'S  HOLIDAY 44 


PAGE 

THE  VISION 46 

THE  ORGAN  MASTER 48 

WORK  ON 50 

THE  WIFE 51 

HER  EYES  ARE  WINDOWS      .        ...  62 

MEMORY 53 

TWO  DAYS 54 

THE  OLD  YELLOW  HIGH  CHAIR  ...  55 

A  DAY  AT  SEA 61 

AFTER  SIXTY  YEARS 62 

A  PICTURE 63 

THE  PRODIGAL  SON'S  AWAKENING    .        .  64 

THE  AUGUST  CROAKER 65 

SUMMER  PASSES 66 

THROUGH  THE  VALLEY 67 

MY  SHINGLE  ROOF 68 

THE  VANISHED  SPIRIT 70 

BUILD   NOT  THINE   EARTHLY    HOME    SO 

FAIR 71 

NIGHTFALL  ON  THE  LAKE     ....  72 

THE  LIVING  FLAG 74 

THE  ROOM  BEYOND 76 

THE  WINDING  OF  THE  CLOCKS    ...  77 

THE  CHILDLESS  WOMAN'S  CRY    ...  81 

AT  THE  YEAR'S  END 82 

THE  LIVING  LINCOLN 84 

IF  ONLY  —  ! .  86 

DISCONTENT .  87 

THE  NEW  BOOK 88 

O  SWEET  MY  VALENTINE!  ....  89 
LINES  WRITTEN  AMONG  THE   RUINS  OF 

ST.  PIERRE 90 


PAGE 

IT  IS  THE  SAME 91 

JESUS  GARCIA'S  RIDE 92 

TO  MY  OLD  ARMCHAIR           ....  94 

THE  ENGINEER 95 

LOVE  AND  FRIENDSHIP         ....  97 

GROWING  OLD 98 

THE  OLD  BRICK  HOUSE  ACROSS  THE  WAY  99 

THE  TREE  OF  THE  CROSS     ....  103 

NOTES 109 


THE  DREAM-ROAD 


»»»■»>  » 


There's  a  broad  highway  that  windeth  down 
And  out,  and  up,  and  far  away ; 
From  the  closing  gates  of  Slumber  Town 
To  the  opening  portals  of  Peep  O'  Day. 

The  road  lies  dim  in  the  crawling  mist 
And  the  drowsy  night  winds  wander  there. 
And  touch,  with  the  wand  of  an  alchemist. 
The  shapes  that  along  that  highway  fare. 

0  wonder  of  wonders,  that  open  eyes 

Gain  never  a  glimpse  of  that  well  worn  way; 
That  none  of  the  Dream-Road's  mysteries 
Are  known  to  the  children  of  Peep  O'  Day! 

For  only  the  fast-closed  eyes  can  see 

The  shapes  that  are  crowding  that  stretch  of 

mist; 
The  lift  of  an  eyelid  turns  the  key, 
And  locks  the  door  which  the  sun  had  kissed. 

1  have  seen — and  you — at  dead  of  night, 
A  motley  throng  go  trooping  by ; 
Spirits  of  darkness,  angels  of  light. 

All  shifting,  changing,  constantly. 


[1] 


r    o    t>      V    *'     r 


For  the  poppied  breath  of  the  night  wind  seems, 
At  a  touch,  to  melt  some  shapes,  and  some 
Take  on  new  forms,  for  the  children  of  dreams 
Forever  change  as  they  go  and  come. 

Often  we  see  our  loved  ones  there,  — 
Those  who  have  long  since  gone  before, — 
For  a  moment  brief,  then  the  vision  fair 
Dies,  as  a  wave  on  the  ocean  shore. 

Thank    God    for    the    Dream-Road    winding 

down. 
And  out,  and  up,  and  far  away ; 
From  the  closing  gates  of  Slumber  Town 
To  the  opening  portals  of  Peep  O'  Day! 


[«i 


THE  OPENING  DOOR 

The  door  that  shuts  the  winter  from  the  spring, 
Swings  slowly  open,  and  with  eager  eyes. 
We  look  abroad  and  search  the  earth  and  skies 
For  friends  to  gladden  with  our  welcoming. 

Some  blades  of  green  beside  a  sunny  wall  — 

The  pussy-willow  yonder  in  the  field  — 

The    tiny    stream    that    wanders    through    the 

weald  — 
The  scudding    cloud    that    shadow-tints    them 

aU,— 

How  glad  we  are  to  see  them  back  again! 
How  we  have  missed  them  through  the  months 

of  cold. 
These  friends,  forever  new,  forever  old, — 
Truer,  more  steadfast  than  the  sons  of  men! 

To-day,  a  crow,  bound  North  on  pinion  strong. 
Flung  down  his  welcome  as  he  went  his  way ; 
I  heard  a  robin  singing  yesterday,  — 
The    Bethlehem    shepherds    heard    no    sweeter 
song! 

The  door  that  shuts  the  winter  from  the  spring 
Ere  long  shall  stand  wide  open,  and  a  host 
Of  those  old  friends  that  glad  our  hearts  the 

most 
Will  seek  and  find  an  old-time  welcoming. 

[8] 


so  GROWS  MY  LOVE 

As  MATIN  songs  succeed  the  midnight  hushes, 
As  night's  soft  breath  distils  in  drops  of  dew; 
As  daylight  grows  from  dawn's  first  timorous 

blushes, 
So  in  my  heart  there  grows  my  love  for  you. 

As  some  far  spring  steals  from  the  rock's  cool 

shadow. 
And  leaps  in  gladness  down  the  mountain  side, 
Then  glides  'twixt  widening  banks   across  the 

meadow, 
So  love  for  you  grows  ever  deep  and  wide. 

Through  April's  smiles  and  tears  the  buds  are 

swelling. 
And  burst  in  blossom  just  to  welcome  May ; 
So  love  for  you  —  but,  ah !  'tis  past  the  telling. 
So  great,  sweetheart,  has  grown  my  love  to-day ! 


[4] 


THE  LAMBS  AND  THE  SHEPHERD 

A  PLEASANT  meadow  and  a  Shepherd's  call 
Beyond  the  confines  of  a  crumbling  wall. 
I  and  a  flock  of  lambs  together  stay 
Upon  this  side  and  wait  the  coming  day; 
And  when  that  kindly  Voice  is  heard  afar 
The  lambs  in  gladness  leap  the  wall's  slight  bar 
And  run  to  meet  the  Shepherd.     I  am  old 
And  without  help  I  cannot  reach  the  fold, 
But  lo !  He  comes  to  where  I,  trembling,  stand 
And  reaching  o'er  the  wall  He  takes  my  hand, 
And  now,  within  the  meadow,  He  and  I 
Watch  for  the  brightening  of  the  eastern  sky. 


[S] 


A  TRAGEDY 

A  siiiENT  figure  standing  by  the  door, 
Watching  the  postman  as  he  comes  across  the 

way; 
Then  quivering  lips,  repeating  o'er  and  o'er 
The  man's  brief  message,    "None  for  you  to- 
day!" 


[6] 


THE  ECHO 

In  the  brick-walled    gullies    which    men    call 

streets, 
Our  hurrying  footsteps  fall, 
While  tortured  Echo  madly  beats 
In  vain  from  wall  to  wall. 

In  the  wide  green  places  which  God  has  made 

Eternal  Stillness  keeps 

Her  faithful  watch  while,  unafraid, 

The  wearied  Echo  sleeps. 


[7 


MARTIUS  MENSIS 

Hebald  of  April!  Thou  art  boisterous,  rough; 

A  queen's  forerunner  should  of  gentler  stuff 

Be  made! 

The  jade! 

Methinks,  perchance,  she  sends  thee  on  ahead. 

While  she  a  little  longer  lies  abed 

And  takes  her  beauty  sleep.    'Tis  like  the  minx ! 

Nor  is  it  past  all  reason  that  she  thinks 

Our  love  for  her  may  all  the  greater  be 

Because  of  what  we  find  to  hate  in  thee. 

And  there  is  over-much.    We  scan  in  vain 

Thy  rough,  rude  ways 

For  aught  to  praise; 

We  count  the  days  remaining  of  thy  reign 

As  doth  the  prisoner,  doomed  for  some  brief 

while 
To  dungeon  deep,  look  forward  to  the  smile 
Of  liberty.     O  March !  Who  are  thy  friends  ? 
Not  the  old  tree  on  yonder  hill,  that  bends 
His  head  when  thou  dost  speak.     Nor  yet  the 

birds 
Which  shiver  when  thou  passest  by ;  nor  herds 
Which  at  thy  rough  approach  show  thee  their 

backs. 
And  seek  the  shelter  of  the  friendly  stacks. 
Thou  hast  no  friends  !    Go  bid  thy  lagging  queen 
Make  haste,  and  when  her  smiling  face  is  seen, 
She    shall    have    welcome;    Thou,    O    Martins 

Mensis 
Begone !    Thy  blustering  presence  an  offense  is. 
[8] 


IN  LIFE'S  FOREST 

The  years  are  as  a  forest  wherein  days 

Are  trees,  'mongst  which  the  countless  winding 

ways 
Of  life  are  found.    Upon  these  paths  men  go 
And  come.     They  meet,  and  pass,  and  it  is  so 
Sometimes,  that  there  is  chance  for  but  one  cry 
Of  greeting;  just  one  glance  from  eye  to  eye, 
Then  they  are  gone,  perhaps  to  meet  no  more 
Till  they  have  passed  beyond  the  Eternal  Shore. 

If  it  were  given  me  to  live  again 
The  life  which  I  have  lived  on  earth  with  men, — 
To  pass  once  more  along  the  way  from  birth 
To  that  last  day  when  endeth  life's  to-morrow, — 
I'd  try  and  live  so  that  each  hour  some  sorrow 
Might  holpen  be  or  some  pain  eased  away; 
Would  try  and  leave  some  mark  upon  each  day 
As  I  passed  on  my  journey.     So,  to  those 
Who  followed  after,  as  the  guide  post  shows 
The  hidden  road,  my  marks  along  life's  way 
Should  be  so  plain  that  men  would  note  and  say 
"  He  hath  been  here  but  yesterday !  " 


[9] 


MY  ACTINIDIA 

Outside    my    landing    window    my     Actinidia 

climbs  — 
(O  shades  of  Shakespeare!  tell  me  what  with 

Actinidia  rhymes?) 
And  I  love  my  Actinida  for  his  coat  of  glossy 

green, 
Which  he  wears  from  earliest  springtime  till  the 

first  snowflake  is  seen. 

With  his  long,  far-reaching  fingers  he  lays  hold 
of  slat  or  blind. 

And  if  he  search  in  vain  and  can  no  friendly  ob- 
ject find. 

He  ne'er  gives  up,  but  reaches  out  and  clutches 
at  the  wind. 

Across  my  landing  window  he  hath  woven  lattice 

green. 
Where  the  birds  of  early  morning  meet  to  carol 

and  to  preen. 
And  through  the  leaves  the    level    rays  of  the 

setting  sun  are  seen. 


[10] 


Each  morning  I  have  greeting  from  this  sturdy 

friend  who  keeps 
His  faithful  watch  while  all  the  weary  household 

safely  sleeps; 
And  his  the  face  I  look  on  last  when  all  good 

nights  are  said, 
And  I  have  passed  the  window  on  my  way  up 

stairs  to  bed. 

All  through  the  long,  cold  winter  months  the 

window,  closed  and  fast. 
Shut  him  without  to  face  alone  the  snow  and 

sleet  and  blast. 
And  there  he  clung  and  waited  with  a  patience 

unsurpassed. 

You  should  have  seen  his  greeting  when  I  flung 

the  window  wide 
And  he  saw  me  on  the  landing  of  the  stairway 

just  inside! 
Shame  filled  my  heart  and  I  must  own  the  truth 

—  I  almost  cried ! 

So  I  love  my  Actinidia  with  his  coat  of  bright- 
est green. 

For  he  giveth  good  for  evil  as  no  other  friend 
I've  seen. 

Which  were  a  God-like  thing  and  one  most  dif- 
ficult, I  ween. 

[11] 


CRUCIFIED 

They  wait  in  far  Capernaum, 

On  Galilee's  blest  shore; 

They  wait  and  hope,  and  long  to  feel 

His  healing  touch  once  more. 

How  oft  He  trod  their  busy  streets, 
And  healed  each  one  that  came; 
The  deaf,  the  dumb,  the  sick,  the  blind, 
The  palsied  and  the  lame. 

With  eager  eyes  they  scan  each  sail 
Which  may  the  Master  bear ; 
They  search  the  mountain  and  the  vale. 
The  Healer  is  not  there! 

The  women  of  Samaria 
To  Jacob's  well  repair. 
Hoping  to  hear  again  that  voice. 
But  Jesus  rests  not  there! 

Within  the  home  in  Bethany 
To  which  the  Master's  feet 
Turned  at  the  close  of  weary  day. 
And  found  a  refuge  sweet. 

The  sisters  sit  and  wait  in  vain; 
The  sunset  tints  the  West 
Ere  dies  the  lingering  hope  that  He 
May  be,  to-night,  their  guest. 

[12] 


O  weep,  ye  sick  by  Galilee, 
Ye  blind  and  deaf  and  dumb; 
Ye  lame  and  halt  who  sit  and  wait, 
Still  hoping  He  may  come! 

Weep  ye  who  heard  that  gracious  voice, 
Beside  the  deep,  cool  well. 
And  ye  who  watched  until  the  shade 
Of  Olive's  Mountain  fell! 

For,  Him  ye  wait  for,  Him  ye  love, 
Hangs  yonder  on  a  tree; 
They  crucified  the  Son  of  God 
To-day,  on  Calvary! 


[IS] 


HE  IS  RISEN 

Doubt  sits  enthroned  among  the  gloomy  hours, 
Night's  wide    dominion    knows  no    gladdening 

ray; 
Grief     holdeth     fast     Hope's     swiftly     fading 

flowers, 
Joy  died  long  since,  and  this  is  that  third  Day ! 

But  look!  What  light,  down-dropping,  cleaves 

the  sky. 
Like  meteor  swift    that    shames    the  brightest 

star; 
And  hark!  On  listening  ears  earth's  tremblings 

die. 
Then  live  again  in  footsteps  felt  afar. 

'Tis  Heaven's  host  come  down    to    wake    their 

Lord 
From  self-imposed  sleep  within  the  tomb; 
And,  breathless,  Heaven  waits  to  hear  that  word 
Which  lifts  a  world  from  its  abyssmal  gloom. 

Back  from  the  rocky  vault  an  angel  band 
In  silence  rolls  the  great  stone  seal  away; 
Then  forth,  with  blessings  in  His  outstretched 

hand. 
Comes  He  whom  death  had  sought  in  vain  to 

stay. 


[14] 


"  The  Lord  is  risen !  "     Shout,    ye    Heavenly 

throng ! 
'*  The  Lord  is  risen !  "    Earth  take  up  the  cry ! 

And  unborn  ages  shall  the  song  prolong  — 
"  He  lives  again  who  died  on  Calvary ! " 


[15] 


K 


A  FLOWER  OF  NEW  ENGLAND 


There  is  a  flower  whose  name  I  need  not  call, 
Which  shyly  hides  beside  the  crumbling  wall, 
Or  lifts,  through  drifts  of  leaves,    her  modest 

head 
And  looks  about,  and  asks,  "Is  winter  dead?" 

0  venturous    flower!    Scarce    waiting    for    the 

spring 
Ere  thou  dost  come  again  with  blossoming. 
But,  through  belated  snows, 
Thy  hardy  petal  shows. 
As  'neath  its  downy  blanket  peeps 
My  baby's  pink-white  toes. 

1  love  thee  well.  New  England  flower! 
In  many  a  dell,  full  many  an  hour 
I've  spent  in  search  of  thee; 

I  love  thee  well,  for  those  I  love 

—  Some  of  them  dwell  in  Heaven  above 

And  some  on  earth  with  me  — 

Have  held  thee  dear; 

And  every  year  thy  smiling  face 

Reminds  me  of  a  time  and  place 

More  sacred  than  a  pilgrim's  shrine. 

More  holy  than  the  vesper  hour, 

O  sweet  New  England  flower! 


[16] 


THE  SACRED  HILLS 

Three  hills  looking  down  on  the  river, 
That  silently  rolls  to  the  sea 
Through  the  silvery  mists  that  shiver 
In  the  valley  below  the  three. 

Three  hills,  and  they  hold  in  their  keeping. 
Making  holy  the  soil  and  the  sod, 
Our  dead  who  beneath  them  are  sleeping. 
Awaiting  the  call  of  their  God. 

O  sweet  is  the  rest  they  are  taking, 
The  hills  and  the  valleys  among; 
And  gone  from  our  hearts  is  the  aching 
That  venomed  the  lip  and  the  tongue. 

Forgotten,  almost,  is  the  story 

Of  bitterness,  bloodshed  and  strife ; 

Forgotten  the  battlefield  gory. 

Where  our  loved  one  bought  peace  with  his  life. 

The  scars  of  the  nation  are  hidden. 
The  mounds  on  the  hillsides  scarce  show, 
But  memory  lives,  and,  unbidden. 
The  tears  for  our  dead  softly  flow. 

Blow  soft  o'er  their  turf,  winds  of  Heaven, 
Lie  gently,  O  blossoms  of  May; 
Till  the  hills    everlasting  are  riven. 
When  Cometh  God's  judgment  day! 

[H] 


A  DAY  OF  THE  LONG  AGO 

There's  a  day  I  know  of  the  long  ago 
When  the  sky  was  all  one  blue ; 
And  the  robin's  song  the  whole  day  long 
Voiced  the  love  in  my  heart  for  you : 

'Twas  the  self  same  day  in  the  far  away 
When  the  wind  blew  soft  from  the  sea, 
And  the  blue  bird's  song  the  whole  day  long 
Told  the  love  in  your  heart  for  me. 

'Twas  an  April  day  that  was  almost  May, 
A  day  that  was  made  for  love ; 
And  life  was  all  good  as  we  roamed  the  wood    , 
While  the  sun  smiled  down  from  above. 

We  sought  the  place  where  the  pure  sweet  face 
Of  the  modest  star  flower  showed, 
In  the  sheltered  nook  where  the  singing  brook 
Runs  down  by  the  old  mill  road. 

For  the  Mayflower's  bloom  with  its  faint  per- 
fume 

We  searched  where  the  old  oak  stands ; 

And  how  could  I  miss  when  you  paid  with  a 
kiss 

For  the  blossoms  I  placed  in  your  hands.'* 


[18] 


Ah,  how  could  I  know  that  my  love  would  grow 
Since  that  day  in  the  bright  spring  weather, 
Truer,  stronger,  through  the  years  that  have 

known  both  smiles  and  tears 
O  happy,  happy  years  we've  spent  together! 


[19] 


THE  MARCH  OF  THE  MEN  IN  BLUE 

Down  the  broad  street,  with  tattered  banners 

flying, 
They  march,  those  men  in  blue, 
As  they  have  marched  year  after  year,  defying 
Old  Time  his  worst  to  do. 

Feebler    the    steps,    but    hearts    are    true    and 

steady. 
While  hope  lights  every  eye; 
To-day,  as  fifty  years  ago,  they're  ready 
To  suffer  or  to  die. 

But  year  by  year  the  ranks  are  thinner  growing. 
For  Time  will  have  his  toll. 
And  since  a  year  ago  new  names  are  showing 
On  Fame's  immortal  roll. 

On  life's  wide  field  Death's  scouts  are  busy  ever, 
And  one  by  one  they  go  — 
Brave  men  in  blue  who  battled  oft,  but  never 
With  such  relentless  foe! 

In  that  great  camp  beyond  the  last  wide  river, 

The  army  of  the  dead 

Sleeps  undisturbed,    while    shadowy    pontoons 

quiver 
Beneath  their  comrades'  tread. 


[20] 


When  they  have  all  passed  on  and  memories  only 

Within  our  hearts  remain, 

Tears  from  our    eyes    shall    fall,    sad,    and  as 

lonely 
As  the  autumnal  rain. 

So  long  they  have  been    with    us!    Forms  and 

faces 
Part  of  our  lives  have  grown ; 
God  keep  them  still  in  the  familiar  places 
Which  they  so  long  have  known! 

Up  to  the  hills  they  march  with  banners  flying, 
Grand  Army  men  in  blue; 

Up  where  their  comrades  rest  who  counted  dying 
The  least  that  they  could  do. 

Our  hearts  go  with  them  and  we  render  gladly 

The  tribute  of  our  love. 

Tears  mingling    with    the    bloom    of    May  as, 

sadly. 
We  bend  their  graves  above. 


[21] 


O  NIGHT  THE  DARKEST  EARTH  HAS 
SEEN 

Night  on  the  slopes  of  Calvary's  hill, 
Night  like  a  funeral  pall, 
Where  lie  the  blood-stained  crosses  still. 
Beyond  the  city's  wall. 

Night  where  the  Roman  soldiers  pace 
Beside  the  sealed  rock, 
Where  lies  the  hope  of  all  the  race. 
Dead  Shepherd  of  the  flock ! 

Night  in  Gethsemane's  garden  where 
So  oft  the  sheltering  trees 
Caught  the  low  whisper  of  His  prayer 
And  shared  His  agonies. 

Night  broods  o'er  Pilate's  restless  sleep, 
Night  fills  his  soul  with  dread; 
Remorse  within  his  heart  gnaws  deep, — 
His  dreams  are  of  the  Dead! 

Night  where  Iscariot's  body  lies 
Dishonored  and  abhorred; 
Shed  bitter  tears,  ye  Syrian  skies 
Por  him  who  sold  his  Lord ! 


[22] 


Night  where  the  mother  Mary  mourns 
Her  well  beloved  son, — 
"  O  cruel  cross !  O  crown  of  thorns ! 
What  evil  had  he  done !  " 

Night  in  the  home  at  Bethany, 

Where  oft  He  loved  to  go ; 

Night  in  the  hearts  of  the  well  loved  three 

As  they  watch  and  whisper  low. 

O  night  the  darkest  earth  has  seen 
Since  chaos  reigned  afar! 
The  hate  that  slew  the  Nazarene 
Quenched  Heaven's  brightest  Star! 


[23] 


A  TRIBUTE 

(g.  h.  r.) 

In  a  safe  harbor  where  the  Southern  Sea 
Earth's  cirding  arms  caressed  unceasingly, 
I  lay  at  anchor  when  there  drifted  in 
A  battered  ship,  with  sails  and  cordage  gone, 
Masts  cut  away,  and  decks  of  all  stripped  clean 
A  storm-tossed  hulk  but  laden,  one  did  say, 
With  cargo  that  would  ransom  all  the  kings 
Of  earth. 

So  was  it  with  our  friend.     Life's  storms 
Did  buffet  him  and  here  and  yon  did  drive; 
Adversity  beset  him  oft  and  beat  him  back; 
The  waves  of  trouble  o'er  him  broke  and  when 
In  all  his  sky  no  star  of  hope  appeared, 
Infirmity's  full  tide  upon  him  rolled 
And  almost  overwhelmed.     Yet,  through  it  all. 
No  cry  save  that  of  prayer  escaped  his  lips, 
No  murmur  of  complaint  was  ever  heard. 
But  oft  a  cheery  hail  to  those  cast  down 
Or  hidden  in  the  mist  of  doubt  and  woe. 
While  ever  was  his  hand  outstretched  to  those 
Whose  needs  were  more  than  his. 


[24] 


We  may  not  grieve, 
We  who  are  left  behind,  for  well  we  know 
That  he  whom  favoring  wind  did  seldom  kiss 
Hath  long  ere  this  felt  heavenly  zephyrs  blow. 
Wafting  him  onward  to  that  far-off  shore 
Where  wait  his    loved    ones    long    since  gone 
before. 


[25] 


RECOMPENSE 

Beneath  a  leaden  sky  in  cold  November 

I  planted  roses  all  one  afternoon  — 

Rough,  thorny  things; 

While  to  my  bleeding  hands  I  cried  "Remember, 

Winter  and  Spring  shall  pass  and  then  fair  June 

With  all  her  wealth  of  blossomings,  shall  hide 

These  cruel  stings." 


[26] 


THE  WEARY  TEACHER 

Her  day  is  ended.     All  the  girls  and  boys 
Have  gone  away  and  now  the  hideous  noise 
Which  marked  their  flight  gives  place  to  peace- 
ful calm; 
And  how  the  quiet  of  the  moment  steals  like 

balm, 
Into  her  weary  heart!  How  long  the  hours 
Have  been  the   while    the    scent   of    earth    and 

flowers 
Called  from  without!    Faint    on    the    summer 

breeze 
Come    Nature's    myriad    sounds,  —  the  hum  of 

bees,  — 
The  birds'  sweet  song  within  the  nearby  trees, 
The  ploughman  calling  to  his  weary  team  — 
The  drowsy  murmur  of  the  winding  stream 
Where  lazy  cattle  stand  knee  deep  and  seem 
Asleep.     How  grateful  to  the  tired  ears, 
These  summer  sounds  the  weary  teacher  hears ! 

The  sun's  low  rays  creep  through  the  open  door 
Making  a  shining  pathway  on  the  floor. 
And  still  she  sits,  with  head  upon  her  hand  — 
In  weariness  that  few  can  understand  — 
The  weary  teacher  when  her  day  is  done ! 


[2T] 


THE   FLOWER  TRANSPLANTED 

The  Gardener's  gift,  the  flower,  which  through 

the  long 
Bright    summer    days  made    glad   the    passing 

hours. 
And  gave  its    fragrance,    as    the    birds    their 

song  — 
Or  as  the  April  sky  its  freshening  showers  — 
Drooped  as  the  summer  waned.    The  Gardener's 

hand 
Lifts  tenderly  the  fading  plant  and  sweet  and 

low 
Soundeth  His  voice  —  "  To  some  fair  Heavenly 

Land 
I  will  transplant  thy  flower  and  thou  shalt  know 
Some  day,  that  I  was  kind  and  good  to  thee, 
When  clothed  in  radiant  beauty,  thou  shalt  see 
Its  fadeless  bloom  throughout  eternity ! " 


[28] 


WHY  THE  BIRDS  SING 

Because  the  sky  is  all  one  blue, 

Because  the  soft,  sweet  summer  winds  are  blow- 
ing; 

Because  the  grass  is  wet  with  dew, 

And  fragrant  wild  flowers  in  the  woods  are 
showing ; 

Because  they  hear  the  hum  of  bees, 
Among  the  blossoms  of  the  orchard  yonder. 
And  catch  the  drowsy  melodies 
Of  brooks  which  through  the  grassy  meadows 
wander ; 

Because  they  hear  the  cattle  call 
As  slowly  down  the  valley  they  are  heading 
To  where  the  deep,  cool  shadows  fall 
And     giant    oaks     their    sheltering     arms    are 
spreading. 

One  day  in  seven  doth  man  sing 

And  offer  thanks  and  praise  for  Grod's  bestow- 
ing, 

But  these  small  creatures  of  the  wing 

Through  every  hour  their  gratitude  are  show- 
ing. 

O  heart  of  mine!     Pour  out  a  song, 

Nor  hold  thy  peace  while  blessings  fall  in 
showers ; 

The  world  is  thine !    To  thee  belong 

Sky,  wind,  bees,  brooks,  wild  woods  and  fra- 
grant flowers. 

[29] 


THE  CALLING  WATER 

The  Water    calls!  —  There,    on     the    Eastern 

Shore,  — 
The  breakers'  sullen  roar,  — 
The  rise  and  fall  of  tide,  — 
The  stretch  of  heaving  blue,  horizon-wide, — 
Ah,  as  the  bridegroom  calleth  for  his  bride. 
So  calls  the  restless  sea,  — 
Calls  with  insistent,  ceaseless  voice,  Come !  Come 

to  me! 

The  Water  calls!    Down    where    the    hurrying 

brook 
Makes  pause,  a  quiet  nook  — 
How  well  I  know  the  place ! 
Often  the  clear,  cool  depths  have  held  my  face 
As  in  a  mirror.    Now,  —  O  God  of  grace !  — 
Something  within  me  calls 
To  that  deep  pool  whereon  the  sunlight  never 

falls ! 

The  Water  calls !  The  river  hastening  down. 

Cleaving  the  quiet  town, 

Slips  past  the  rocks  that  try 

Its  course  to  stay,  but  still  it  hurries  by 

And  I  can  hear  it  calling,  —  hear  that  cry. 

The  same  that  came  to  me 

From  that  dark    pool    and    from    the  restless, 


surging  sea! 


[80] 


The  Water  called  her !  Sea  and  brook  and  river 
(Ah,  man  must  needs  forgive  her!) 
Promised  the  end  of  pain 

For  weary  heart,  for  fevered,  tortured  brain: 
And  now  let  tears  of  love  and  pity  rain 
Upon  the  upturned  face 

From  which    the    calling    river    washed  care's 
every  trace ! 


[31] 


ABSENCE 

She  is  gone  and   the    house    is  so    still  and  so 

lonely ! 
'Tis  the  ghost  of  a  home,  and  my  heart  whispers 

low, 
"  Ah !  now  you  well  know  it  is  she  and  she  only, 
Who  gladdens  your  life  as  the  days  come  and 

go." 

Her  chair  by  the  window,  a  bit  of  her  sewing, 
Her  thimble  left    just    where    she  laid    it  that 

day, — 
Her  basket,  —  a  bit  of  unfinished  work  showing. 
Her  clothes  in  the  closet  in  sweet  disarray,  — 

All,  all  as  she  left  them,  but  she,  their  bright 

spirit. 
Has  gone,  and  'tis  like  looking  down  on  the  clay, 
When  a  cold,  lifeless  form  is  the  gift  we  inherit 
From  Death  when  some  loved  one  is  taken  away. 

Oh  the  best    of   my    life   went    away   with  her 

going,  — 
The  brightness,  the  sweetness,  the  joy  and  the 

zest ! 
In  my    grief -clouded    heavens    no    sunshine    is 

showing. 
My  heart  lieth  heavy  and  cold  in  my  breast! 


[32] 


Should  there  be  —  O  my  God  —  should  there 

be  no  returning !  — 
Should  the  days  and  the  months  and  the  years 

still  to  come, 
Hold  never  an  answer  to  love's  tender  yearning. 
Should  I  live  on  alone  in  my  desolate  home! 

There's  a  step  on  the  stair  and  the  odor  of  roses 
Steals  into  the  room  as  I  wait  by  the  door ; 
And  then  —  she  is  back !  and  my  arm  'round  her 

closes, 
As  softly  she  whispers,  "  I    will    leave  you  no 

more ! " 


[33 


MOTHER'S  BAKING  DAY 

I  WAS  dozing  in  my  armchair  with  a  book  upon 
my  knees, 

While  through  the  open  window  came  sweet 
summer's  melodies,  — 

The  sound  of  many  song  birds  and  the  hum- 
ming of  the  bees ; 

And  the  breath  of  June's  red  roses  drifted  with 
the  summer  wind  — 

(Now  I  love  the  scent  of  roses  and  the  wander- 
ing breeze  was  kind, 

And  he  bore  his  lovely  burden  till  he  found  my 
half -closed  blind). 

In  the  culinary  region  underneath,  I  thought  I 

heard, 
Now  and  then,  its  clever  goddess  as  about  her 

work  she  stirred; 
And  I  caught  the  sound  of  singing  though  I 

understood  no  word. 

Now  I  wonder  if  you've  noticed  as  you've  gone 

along  life's  way. 
How  some  odor  will  bring  suddenly  to  mind  a 

certain  day. 
Or  a  scene,  a  pain  or  pleasure,  which  till  then 

forgotten  lay. 


[34] 


As  I  dozed  within  my  armchair  came  my  friend 

the  summer  breeze  — 
Came  and  stirred  the  leaves  of  that  old  book 

that  lay  upon  my  knees; 
Then  he  whispered  to  me,  gently,  "  Here's  a 

something  that  will  please." 

'Twas  the  smell  of  ginger  cookies  from  the  re- 
gion down  below! 

And  my  thought  went  back  to  childhood  as  an 
arrow  from  a  bow, 

And  I  stood  in  mother's  kitchen  in  the  years  of 
long  ago. 

With  her  sleeves  above  her  elbows  and  her  hair 
all  tidied  back, 

(She  used  to  say  a  frowsy-headed  girl  was  al- 
ways slack). 

She  would  spend  the  half  of  Saturday  in  baking 
up  a  stack 

Of  cookies,  bread  and  doughnuts,  pies  and  pud- 
dings. Johnny-cake  — 

Oh  I  cannot  call  to  mind  the  half  the  things  she 
used  to  make, 

But  I  know  I  always  liked  to  stay  around  and 
watch  her  bake. 


[35] 


And  I'm  sure  I  must  have  bothered  her,  for  oft 

I've  heard  her  wish 
"  I  wouldn't  get  right  under  foot,"  then  with  a 

sudden  "  sh !" 

She  drove  me  out  (but  afterward  she  let  me  lick 

the  dish)  ! 

'Twas  fun  to  watch  her  mix  the  dough  and  use 

the  rolling  pin; 
And  when  she  had  it  all   rolled   out    (I  always 

thought  too  thin). 
To  see  her  cut  out  cookies  with  a  heart-shaped 

cooky  tin. 

And  how  I  teased  to  have  "  what's  left,"  to  make 

a  cooky  man! 
And  what  a  time  I  had  to  get  him  safely  in  the 

pan! 
And  when  I  had  him  baked  he  looked  just  like  a 

palm  leaf  fan. 

As  still  I  dreamed  of  baking  days  in  which  I'd 

taken  part, 
I  was  suddenly  awakened  from    my    dreaming 

with  a  start. 
And  there  stood  the    kitchen    goddess    with  a 

fresh  baked  cooky  heart! 


[36] 


Now  I  wonder  if  you've  noticed  as  you  passed 
along  life's  ways 

How  the  smell  of  something  baking,  on  the  mo- 
ment, seemed  to  raise 

A  long-forgotten  memory  of  your  mother's 
baking  days? 


[37] 


A  SUMMER  NOON 

The  dusty  highway  and  the  city  street 
Alike  are  blistering  in  the  noontide  heat. 
Quiet  is  over  all.    The  dying  grass 
UpHfts  no  finger  to  the  sky  of  brass ; 
Even  the  leaves  of  yonder  poplar  trees, 
Responsive  ever  to  the  slightest  breeze, 
Hang  motionless.    The  shrinking  shadows  crawl 
Beneath  the  trees.     Beside  the  garden  wall, 
Backed  to  its  cooling  bulk,  the  house  dog  lies 
With  dripping  tongue.     His  enemies,  the  flies, 
Give  him  no  rest  and  presently  he  goes 
To  the  dark  cellar  to  escape  his  foes. 
A  robin  on  the  fence  post  lifts  his  wings 
To  cool  his  burning  body;  then  he  sings, 
But  seemingly  his  dry  and  parched  throat 
Unequal  is  to  its  accustomed  note. 
Listless  and  drooping  stand  the  ranks  of  com, 
Longing  to  feel  again  the  dews  of  morn. 
Down  where  the  brook  has  widened  to  a  pool. 
And  paused  beneath  the  old  oak's  shadow  cool, 
The  cattle  stand  knee  deep  and  chew  their  cud, 
Their  hot  hoofs  buried  in  the  cooling  mud. 
Up  from  the  meadows  basking  in  the  heat 
The  smell  of  new  mown  hay,  like  incense  sweet. 
Drifts  slowly  o'er  the  heads  of  nodding  wheat. 
For  one  brief  hour  the  reapers'  blades  are  still — 
For  one  brief  hour  no  sound  from  yonder  mill 
Betrays  the  whirling  stones.  The  pounding  feet 

[38] 


Of  weary  horses,  as  they  slowly  eat, 
Scarcely  disturb  the  reapers  as  they  rest 
Within  the  half-filled  mow.     Up  on  her  nest 
A  swallow  twitters  softly  to  her  brood 
And  for  a  time  forbears  her  quest  for  food. 
Rest  rules  the  welcome  hour;  but  all  too  soon 
That  hour  has  ended  and  'tis  afternoon! 


[39J 


THE  WOOD  ROAD 

Sweet  with  the  smell  of  pine  and  fragrant  fern, 
Bordered  with  laurel  and  the  late  wild  rose, 
Charm  adding  unto  charm  with  each  new  turn. 
In  sinuous  beauty  through  the  wood  it  goes. 

How  fair  each  step  of  all  that  winding  way 
Carpeted  deep  with  needles  of  the  pine. 
Which  'neath  a  lace  of  flickering  shadows  lay 
Where  sunlight  softly  fell    through    tree    and 
vine. 

The  wind  that  sighed    among    the    whispering 

trees  — 
The  faint,  far    call    of    some    lone  wandering 

bird  — 
The  rustling  of  a  squirrel  —  the  hum  of  bees  — 
Our  own  soft  footfalls  —  only  these  we  heard. 

Like  a  dim  aisle  in  old  cathedral  vast 
The  arborous  arches  shut  us  from  the  sky, 
Beauty  to  beauty  added  as  we  passed 
The  living  pillars  lifted  up  on  high. 

Like  a  cool  hand  in  benediction  laid. 
Or  the  low  tones  of  long  forgotten  prayers, 
Fell  on  our  hearts,  within  that  grateful  shade, 
Forgetfulness  of  earth  and  all  its  cares. 


[40] 


And  O  the  sacred  peace  that  lingered  there 
Within  the  wide,  deep  places  of  the  wood ! 
The  stillness  of  the  ages  seemed  to  share 
With  us  that  holy,  tranquil  solitude. 


[41] 


THERE  IS  MY  HOME 

There  is  my  home  where  giant  elm  trees  meet 
In  graceful  arches  o'er  the  wide  old  street; 
Where  locusts  lift  to    Heaven    their    fern-like 

leaves 
And  the  wistarias  clamber  to  the  eaves. 

There,  where  the  woodbine  paints  in  living  green 
The  shingled    slopes,    and    weaves    a  grateful 

screen 
Beside  my  deep  cool  porch  from  which  I  see 
Twin  birches,  ever  dear  to  memory. 

There,  where  my  actinidia's  tendrils  reach 
The  roof;  where  modest  lillies  gently  teach 
Their  lesson;  where  the  fragrant  roses  bloom 
And  honeysuckles  scent  the  evening  gloom  — 

There  is  my  home ;  and  to  my  grateful  eyes 

It  seems  the  opening  gate  of  Paradise 

When  o'er  the  lawn  the    lengthening    shadows 

creep, 
And  nightfall  sends  me  home  to  rest  and  sleep. 

Fair  is  my  home,  but  there's  one  fairer  still 
Where  ends  the  slope  of  life's  last,  longest  hill; 
And  so  along  my  way,  steadfast,  I  fare. 
Faith  whispering  to  my  heart,  "  Thy  Home  is 
There!" 

[42] 


BURIED  TREASURE 

With  pick  and  spade  deep  down  the  delvers  go 
Beneath  the  ruins  buried  ages  since. 
Where  Vulcan  cast  his  scoria  far  and  wide, 
A  city's  parks  and  streets  are  drifted  full 
Of  ash  and  molten  rock.     The  centuries 
Have  flung  with  careless  hand  the  sifting  sand 
In  temple  court  and  market  place.     And  now 
Mole-like,  the  antiquary,  bit  by  bit. 
Delves  deep  and  labors  long  to  clear  away 
The  wreck  which  time  has  made.    How  happy  he 
If,  after  days  of  toil,  by  chance  he  finds 
A  bit  of  pottery  or  an  ancient  coin 
On  whose  worn  face  he  may  discern,  perhaps. 
The  imprint  of  some  king  whose  dust  long  since 
Has  blended  with  the  sand  from  which  the  coin 
Was  dug. 

Seekers  of  treasure  in  the  dust 
Of  bygone  centuries !    Here  at  our  hand 
And  in  our  midst  ye  may,  even  now,  to-day. 
Find  buried  underneath  the  wrecks  of  sin 
And  want  and  woe,  vessels  the  Potter  made 
Who  formed  the  plastic  earth ;  may  find  the  face 
Of  Heaven's  King  show  faint  on  human  coin 
Lost,  years  ago,  by  careless  hands  or  cast 
In  anger  off  by  those  who  should  have  saved. 


[43] 


FATHER'S  HOLIDAY 

We're  always  glad  when  Father  has  a  holiday, 

for  then 
He  stays  at  home  and  tinkers  (Ma  says,  "  like 

the  best  of  men" )  ; 
And  when  night  comes  and  we  look  'round  to 

see  what  he  has  done. 
We  wonder  when  he  says  his  holiday  was  lots  of 

fun! 

That  rocker  in  the  parlor  which  would  squeak 

like  all  possessed, 
He  fixed  that  up  so  now  we  think  it's  just  the 

very  best 
Of  all  the  chairs.    But  sister  don't.    She  always 

has  to  blow 
'Bout  something.     Guess  the  reason  is  'twont 

hold  her  and  her  beau. 

The  tall  clock  in  the  hallway  hadn't  struck  for 

awful  long, 
And  not  a  single  one  of  us  could  tell  just  what 

was  wrong; 
But  that's  the  kind  of  tinkering  that  Father 

seems  to  like,  — 
In  twenty  minutes  by  the  clock  we  heard  the  old 

thing  strike! 


[44] 


You  ought  to  see  him  soldering!     The  tinman 

isn't  in  it! 
He'll  take  a  leaky  milk  pan  and  in  just  about  a 

minute 
It's  just  as  good  as  ever,  so  Ma  says;  (She's 

awful  proud 
Of  Father,  but  she  never  tells  him  so  right  out 

'loud). 

The  doors  with  broken  hinges  and  the  lock  with 

key  that's  lost, 
The  back   steps  heaved  'way  out  of  place   (I 

s'pose  that  was  the  frost)  ; 
The  coffee  pot  with  lid  broke  off,  the  dish  pan 

with  a  leak. 
The  dinner  bell  with  clapper  gone,  the  screen 

door  spring  too  weak  — 

All  these  odd  jobs  and  O,  lots  more,  did  Father 

do  to-day. 
And  just  a  little  while  ago  he  said  'twas  just  like 

play! 
I'll  bet  when  I'm  grown  up  like  him  I  won't  stay 

home  and  work 
On  holidays  like  Father  does;  I'll  lay  'round 

like  a  Turk! 


[45] 


THE  VISION 

Child  in  whose  upturned  eyes 
Shineth  a  light  hke  that  of  some  lone  star, 
What  dost  thou  see  which  sight  to  us  denies 
Of  that  bright  world  afar? 

Hast  thou  a  vision  bright 
Of  golden  streets  where  crystal  waters  flow,  — 
Where  radiant  angels,  bathed  in  Heavenly  light. 
Pass  ever  to  and  fro? 

Tell  us,  thou  star-eyed  one 

If,  in  that  throng    around    the    great  White 

Throne 
Are  those    we    love,    whose    work    on    earth    is 

done,  — 
Child,  canst  thou  see  our  own? 

Oh,  that  our  eyes,  like  thine. 
Could  pierce  beyond  the  farthest  realm  of  night ! 
Where  neither  sun  nor  moon  need  ever  shine. 
For  the  Lamb  giveth  light ! 

Falls  on  thy  listening  ear 

Sweet  harmony  as  many  an  angel  hand 

Sweeps  soft  o'er  golden  harp?     Say,  canst  thou 

hear 
The  music  of  that  Land? 


[46] 


Speak,  child !  What  dost  thou  see  ? 

Our     eyes     are    holden,  —  blind     to    Heavenly 

things ; 
Tell  us  what  vision  is  revealed  to  thee, 
What  song  through  Heaven  rings ! 


[47] 


THE  ORGAN  MASTER 

Within  the  gilded  pipes  sweet  notes  unnum- 
bered 
In  silence  slept 

Until  the  organ  master,  with  caressing  hands  — 
Gentle  as  love's  commands  — 
The  keyboard  swept,  waking  each  sleeping  tone. 
And  forth  they  came ;  softly  at  first,  alone, 
Then,  bolder  grown, 
A  mighty  throng. 
They  filled  the  sacred  place 
With  wordless  song, 
And  all  the  vast  dim  space 
That  lies  between  the  arches  overhead 
And  the  worn  pave  where  sleep  the  holy  dead 
Was  sweet  with  music  which  the  master  mind 
Had  dreamed. 

Almost  it  seemed  as  though  the  informing  wind 
That  softly  breathed  into  the  pipes  must  be 
The  echo  of  some  angel  melody ; 
For  into  bruised  hearts  it  stole 
And  whispering  "  Peace !  "  lo,  they  were  whole ; 
Bowed  forms  were  lifted  when  was  heard 
That  heavenly  music.     Souls  were  stirred 
To  better,  truer,  nobler  things 


[48] 


And  from  the  deeps  of  tear-dimmed  eyes 
The  beams  of  heavenly  hope  arise 
As  from  the  forest  pool  there  springs 
The  clear  reflection  of  a  star 
That  hangs  in  evening  skies. 

Dream  on!  and  tell  the    world    thy    wondrous 

dream, 
O  man  of  music !  and  thy  melodies 
Shall  cheer  the  camps  that  stretch  along  life's 

stream, 
Where  hearts  grow  weary  for  the  home  that  lies 
Beyond  the  sunset  gleam. 


[49 


WORK  ON 

CouEAGE,  ye  lesser  ones!  There  rides  on  high 
Only  one  sun,  ruling  the  hours  of  day, 
But  in  the  blackness  of  the  midnight  sky 
Shines  many  a  star  that  points  the  homeward 

way 
For  mariners  upon  the  trackless  sea. 
Who  knows  for  whom  his  life  a  star  may  be? 

Work  on,  nor  count  thy  work  a  trivial  thing,  — 
No  earnest  life  was  ever  lived  in  vain ; 
The  fragrance  of  a  wild  flower's  blossoming 
May  soothe  a  grieving  heart  or  ease  a  pain. 
Omnipotence  upholds  each  distant  star,  — 
Omniscient  love  knows  where  the  flowers  are. 


[50] 


THE  WIFE 

I  KNOW  a  heart  as  pure  and  sweet 
As  any  drop  of  dew  that  glows 
Within  the  petals  of  a  rose. 

I  know  a  pair  of  dainty  feet 

That  never  rest  nor  know  content 

Unless  on  love's  sweet  errands  bent. 

I  know  a  pair  of  hands  that  seek 
Each  moment's  chance  to  minister 
To  him  who  is  the  life  of  her. 

I  know  dear  lips  that  ceaseless  speak 
The  words  of  comfort  soft  and  low 
She  sends  adrift  like  thistle  blow. 

I  know  of  eyes  that  e'en  the  dark 
Would  pierce  to  see  if  her  love's  face 
Bore  of  distress  or  pain  a  trace. 

I  know  of  ears  that  ever  hark 

Lest  her  beloved's  faintest  cry 

Of  pain  or  need  should  pass  them  by. 

Kindness  and  mercy,  truth  and  grace, 
These,  like  soft  draperies  she  wears, 
As  gently  on  life's  way  she  fares. 

And  ever  the  brightness  of  her  face 
Makes  radiant  sunshine  as  she  goes  — 
God  bless  her  life  till  life  shall  close ! 

[51] 


HER  EYES  ARE  WINDOWS 

Hee  eyes  are  windows  of  a  soul 
Fragrant  with  all  that's  good, 
As  soft,  sweet  odors  downward  drift 
From  the  pine  hearted  wood. 

Her  smile  is  like  the  light  that  falls 
On  mountain,  lake  and  plain. 
When,  after  some  brief  summer  shower, 
The  sun  shines  out  again. 

Her  lips  are  sweet  with  many  a  word 
Of  comfort,  spoken  low; 
Her  ears  the  chalices  wherein 
Rests  many  a  tale  of  woe. 

Her  feet  are  mercy's  messengers. 
Swiftly  obedient 
To  do  the  promptings  of  a  heart 
Ever  on  goodness  bent. 

Her  willing  hands  no  rest  may  know 
When  love  or  duty  calls ; 
She  scatters  kindness  as,  of  old, 
The  Heavenly  manna  falls. 

Ah,  he  who  wins  her  heart  of  love 
Shall  find  himself  more  blessed 
Than  he  of  old  whose  touch  to  gold 
Turned  all  that  he  possessed ! 

[52] 


MEMORY 

(An  answer  to  William  Watson's  "The  Fatal 
Prayer") 

Who  looks  but  once  on  beauty's  face 
Can  ne'er  forget  that  sight, 
Though  blindness  banish  every  trace 
Of  Heaven's  effulgent  light. 

For  there's  a  hidden  chamber  where 
Fond  memory  often  goes, 
And  Oh!  that  room  is  wondrous  fair, 
And  many  a  picture  shows 

Upon  those  walls.    Nay,  poet,  nay, 
Blind  eyes  no  armor  wear. 
For  memory's  halls  are  bright  as  day 
To  those  who  wander  there. 

Close  thou  thine  eyes  and  thou  shalt  see 
(And  seeing  shalt  be  blest!) 
Thy  mother's  eyes  that  looked  on  thee 
Asleep,  upon  her  breast. 

And  though  an  ocean  roll  between 
Thy  best-beloved  and  thee. 
Still  plainly  her  dear  face  is  seen. 
Revealed  by  memory. 


[53] 


TWO  DAYS 

Shoet  was  the  road  and  bright,  though  no  least 

ray 
Found  the  wood  path   that   wound   among  the 

trees ; 
For  one  dear  presence  made  as  light  as  day 
That  darkening  trail  the  sunlight  never  sees. 

O  drear  and  never  ending  is  the  way 
Across  the  mountain  meadow's  sun-kissed  height, 
Untrodden  by  the  feet  which,  yesterday, 
Led  through  the  gloom  and  made  the  darkness 
light. 


[54] 


THE  OLD  YELLOW  HIGH  CHAIR 

Down  the  line  from  father  to  son 

The  old  yellow  high-chair  came ; 

And  now,  because  of  the  good  it  has  done, 

And  not  because  it  is  lame 

In  its  arms  or  legs,  or  is  getting  rheumatic, 

Up  there  in  the  attic, 

Under  the  eaves. 

Where  the  falling  leaves 

And  the  pattering  rain 

Tell  over  again 

The  story  of  what's  going  on  outside, 

The  old  high-chair  is  allowed  to  bide 

In  peace  and  quiet ; 

While  the  rush  and  riot  — 

The  scramble  of  life, 

And  the  world's  mad  strife, 

Are  all  shut  out  by  the  friendly  roof. 

There  can  certainly  be  no  better  proof 

Of  its  friendship  than  all  those  little  chinks 

So  carefully  left  in  its  shingled  slopes. 

Through  which  the  North  star  sometimes  winks 

And  asks  if  the  old  high-chair  has  hopes 

Of  finding  his  way  down  stairs  once  more ! 

And  then,  far  back  along  time's  shore 

In  thought  the  old  chair  wanders ; 

And  dreamily  he  ponders 

On  that  glad  day,  so  far  away, 

[65] 


When  he  was  young,  and  to  him  clung 
That  wonderful  first-bom  baby ! 
Gripping  his  arms  (he  can  feel  it  yet!) 
And  kicking  his  legs  (will  he  ever  forget?) 
Thumping  a  soft  head,  maybe, 
Against  his  back,  and  resting  there, 
So  smooth  and  round  and  void  of  hair, 
That  wonderful  first-born  baby ! 

Seventy  years  have  passed  since  then: 

More  babies  came  and  grew  to  men ; 

But  never  a  one  was  so  sweet  and  fair 

As  the  one  that  christened  the  old  high-chair. 

War!  and  the  first  born,  held  so  dear, 
Grown  to  a  man,  was  a  volunteer 
When  his  country  called.     Ah,  many  a  tear 
The  mother  shed; 
And  the  farewell  said 
Was  said  forever. 
For,  back  to  her  never 
Returned  her  boy,  her  priceless  joy. 
And  he  rests  to-day  in  a  far  away 
And  unmarked  grave  'neath  Southern  skies; 
While  the  waiting  mother's  tear-dimmed  eyes 
Were  closed  long  since  and  now  she  sleeps 
Where  the  old  pine  tree  forever  keeps 
His  watch  on  the  middle  ridge  up  yonder  — 
Where  the  sighing  night  winds  meet  and  pon- 
der 
Of  Death  and  the  harvest  that  he  reaps. 

[56] 


Down  the  line  from  father  to  son  — 
And  seventy  years  is  a  long,  long  time ! 
The  old  chair  thinks  of  them  one  by  one: 
That  first  baby's  father  was  in  his  prime 
When  the  last  baby  came  and  the  proud  chair's 

arms 
Received  the  girl  with  her  winsome  charms; 
But  alas !  it  was  scarcely  more  than  a  year 
That  she  tarried  here ; 
Then  she  went  away, 
And  the  light  of  day 
Died  out  of  the  sky: 
And  the  weeks  went  by 
On  leaden  feet. 
While  all  there  was  left 
For  the  mother  bereft 
Was  a  memory  sweet. 

Sad  thoughts?     Ah  yes,  but  the  years  that  lay 
Between  that  first  and  this  last  birthday,  — 
How  filled  they  were  with  joy  for  the  chair! 
For  nine  little  babies  soft  and  fair 
He  held  in  his  arms  and  sheltered  there. 
And  the  sixth  of  the  nine  when  he  grew  to  a 

man 
And  had  married  a  wife  and  really  began 
To  live  a  real  life, 

To  him,  down  the  line,  came  the  old  high-chair 
With  coat  of  yellow  and  stripes  of  green ; 

[57] 


And  the  proudest  chair  that  ever  was  seen 
When  the  sixth  son's  first  born  baby  boy  — 
His  father's  pride  and  his  mother's  joy — 
Was  put  in  his  arms  to  hold ! 

And  now,  for  fifteen  years  or  more, 

The  old  yellow  chair  graced  the  nursery  floor, 

As  proud  of  the  new  coat  of  paint  he  wore 

As  he  was  of  the  heads  of  gold 

That  bumped  and  thumped    and    rumpled  and 

rolled 
Against  his  back,  till    he    thought    they  must 

crack  — 
Six  little  heads,  all  told. 

"Old  friends  are  best,"  is  a  saying  true 
Which  appeals  to  me  as  it  does  to  you ; 
And  whether  the  friend  be  man  or  chair, 
Or  the  tree  at  the  foot  of  the  garden  there. 
Or  the  grandfather's  clock  at  the  head  of  the 

stair. 
Give  me  the  old  friends  though  they  be  few  — 
Let  those  who  will,  take  the  young  and  the  new. 

The  years  went  by  as  a  dream  is  dreamed 
And  the  babies  wore  all  the  paint  off  the  arms 
Of  the  yellow  chair  till  the  bare  wood  gleamed. 
But    that    only    heightened    the    old    friend's 

charms. 
The  babies  grew  (as  they  always  do) 

[58] 


And  there  came  a  day 

Alas  for  the  chair ! 

When  they  took  him  away  — 

Up  the  attic  stair  — 

And  they  put  him  aside,  like  an  outgrown  shoe ; 

And  there  he  stood  for  many  a  year, 

While  sometimes  hope  and  sometimes  fear 

Came  into  his  life  'neath  the  sloping  eaves ; 

For  the  whispering  leaves 

Would  tell  of  the  happenings  down  below, 

How  the  children  continued  to  thrive  and  grow ; 

How  the  eldest  was  almost  to  manhood  grown 

When  Death  came  by  and  claimed  his  own; 

And  the  old  pine  tree  saw  a  new  grave  made 

Where  the  first  born  boy  was  tenderly  laid 

And  covered  away  from  the  snow  and  the  cold 

When  the  year  was  new  and  the  century  old. 

But  time  works  wonders  and  heals  all  scars ; 
The  prisoner,  waiting  behind  the  bars, 
Fixes  his  thought  on  that  far  away, 
But  steadily  coming  nearer,  day 
Which  again  shall  set  him  at  liberty. 

So  in  silence  waits  the  old  high-chair 
For  the  sound  of  a  step  on  the  attic  stair ; 
For  he  knows,  as  the  years  go,  one  by  one. 
That  down  the  line  from  father  to  son 
His  way  shall  lead ;  and  he  hopes  to  see 
The  sixth  son's  son  coming  up  some  day 

[59] 


To  take  him  away; 

Then  his  arms  shall  hold, 

As  in  days  of  old, 

A  wonderful  first-bom  baby! 

And  who  of  us  knows  — 

Save  the  wind  that  blows 

Over  the  tree  tops  and  under  the  rose,  — 

How  soon  that  glad  time  may  be? 

Wait  patiently,  old  yellow  chair 

For  the  mounting  step  on  the  attic  stair ; 

Tell  over  again, 

O  pattering  rain. 

And  whisper,  ye  leaves, 

To  the  sloping  eaves. 

The  story  of  what  goes  on  outside. 

That  the  old  high  chair 

May  not  despair, 

But  in  patience  and  hope  may  bide. 


[60] 


A  DAY  AT  SEA 

Sunshine  and  whispering  breeze, 
A  cloud-flecked  summer  sky ; 
All  day  we  watch  the  shimmering  seas 
And  so  the  hours  drift  by. 


[61 


AFTER  SIXTY  YEARS 

A  YOUNG  man  walking  in  a  garden  fair 

Well  filled  with  flowers  whose  fragrance  filled 

the  air, 
Found  only  one  that  pleased  him,  just  one  rare 
Sweet  Marigold. 

An  old  man  standing  in  the  sunset  light 
Is  clasping  still  his  flower  and  still  'tis  bright. 
"O  Blossom  sweet !  "  he  cries,  "  God  bless,  to- 
night. 
My  Marigold ! " 


[62] 


A  PICTURE 

The  night  was  chill  and  by  my  study  fire 

I  sat  and  nursed  my  lately  kindled  ire ; 

For  just  within  the  hour  my  little  girl 

Had  done  some  trifling  wrong  and,  like  a  churl, 

In  anger  I  had  struck  the  child  a  blow 

And  driven  her  from  me.  O  may  God  do  so 

To  me  and  more  also  if  I  repeat 

The  folly  of  that  hour !    With  lagging  feet 

She  crept  away,  and  through  the  open  door 

I  saw  her  cHmb  the  stair.     Now  heretofore 

Each  night  she  came  and  sat  upon  my  knee 

And  eased  her  troubled  heart,  or  else  in  glee 

She  told  of  something  that  had  caused  her  mirth. 

Ah  me !  My  fire  seemed  now  but  little  worth ;  — 

Its  warmth  and  brightness    vanished    with  her 

flight. 
And  how  I    missed   her   kiss    and    low    "  Good 

night." 

A  white  robed  figure  steals  into  the  room, 
Like  some  fair  lily  full  of  sweet  perfume, 
And  with   her   face   pressed   close    against  my 

breast, 
I  am  forgiven  and  she  sinks  to  rest. 


[63] 


THE  PRODIGAL  SON'S  AWAKENING 

Outcast  and  stranger  still  in  this  far  land! 
The  fires  which  flamed  so  hot  within  his  heart 
Have  burned  to  ashes  now,  and  hand  in  hand 
With  want,  he  wanders  while  with  maddening 

smart 
His  conscience  pricks  him  deep.  At  night,  alone, 
His  eyes,  uplifted,  see  in  every  star 
The  eye  of  God.    The  night  wind  from  afar 
Finds  him  as,  with  no  pillow  but  a  stone. 
He  tries  to  sleep,  and  whispers  in  his  ear. 
He  dreams  of  home.    Again  he  seems  to  hear 
His  father's  voice  and  see  the  kindly  face. 
So  filled  with  love,  and  for  a  little  space 
He  is  a  boy  again  and  back  at  home ! 
Was  it  the  wind  that  whispered  that  sweet  word.? 
Was  it  the  father's  prayer  that  God  had  heard.? 
The  sin-sick  dreamer  woke.     Beneath  the  dome 
Of  Heaven  he  was  alone,  but  there  had  stirred 
Within  his  heart  some  impulse  toward  the  good, 
And  when  at  last  the  morning  broke,  he  stood, 
A  man  once  more;  and  as  a  wounded  bird 
Will  seek  its  nest,  so  did  the  wanderer,  —  come 
Again  to  self,  —  turn  back  once   more    toward 

home. 


[64] 


THE  AUGUST  CROAKER 

O  SINGER  of  the  fading  summer  light ! 

Thy  strident,  never-ending  monotone, 

Shot,  thread-like,  through  the  warp  and  woof  of 

night. 
Makes  through  the  hours  a  music  all  its  own. 

Both  requiem  and  prophecy  thy  lay; 

The  summer  dies  and  for  her  thou  must  sing ; 

While  Autumn's  footsteps  sound  far  down  the 

way, 
And  thou  art  herald  to  the  season's  King. 


[65] 


SUMMER  PASSES 

So  FAIR  my  garden  is,  so  rich  with  bloom, 
Scarce  for  another  blossom  is  there  room. 
All  Summer  long,  with  love  and  tender  care, 
I've  watched  the  countless  flowers  growing  there. 
And  all  the  air 
Was  laden  with  their  delicate  perfume. 

All  Summer    long!    Sad    words,    for    Summer 

wanes. 
And  the  warm  days,  blue  skies  and  blossoming 

lanes, 
Give  place  to  Autumn's  haze,  skies  overcast, 
And  yellowing  leaves. 
All  nature  grieves 
That  Summer's  pleasant  reign  so  soon  is  past. 

So  fair  my  garden  is !    And  now,  some  night, 

With  killing  blight. 

The  frost  will  lay  a  ruthless  hand  on  all 

The  blooms  which    hold    my    heart    in    loving 

thrall ; 
And  in  the  morn  of  some  gray,  cold  to-morrow. 
Will  come  to  me  that  bitter  grief  and  sorrow 
Which  mothers  know 

Who  weep  and  mourn  their  well-beloved  dead ; 
And  I  will  go 
And  mourn,  nor  will  my  heart  be  comforted. 


[66] 


THROUGH  THE  VALLEY 

If  it  were  mine  to  choose  how  I  would  go 
When,  at  the  last,  Death's  summons  comes  to  me, 
I'd  crave  of  him  our  meeting  place  might  be 
In  some  fair,  quiet  valley,  where  the  flow 
Of  crystal  water  greets  the  listening  ear ; 
Where  sentinel  peaks  look  on  the  scene  below 
And  guard,  with  jealous  care,  the  vale  held  dear. 
I'd  ask  that  it  might  be  some  autumn  day. 
When  Indian  summer's  glamour  holds  in  thrall 
The  warm,  bright  world;  when  the    lone    wood 

bird's  call 
Comes  faintly,  like  an  echo  gone  astray. 

In  such  a  place,  on  such  a  day,  died  he 

Whom  I  have   known   and   loved   for   twoscore 

years ; 
And  when,  unbidden,  to  my  eyes  the  tears 
Will  come,  I  chide  my  heart  and  say  "Let  be! 
He  would  not  have  thee  grieve;  rather  rejoice 
That  he,  who  loved  the  mountains  and  the  wood. 
The  sunlight  and  the  sea  and  all  that  good 
Which  sprang  to  being  at  the  primal  Voice, 
Knew  not  Death's  valley,  'twas  so  passing  fair. 
Nor  knew  that  Death  himself  was  waiting  there. 
Until,  beyond  the  stream,  One  took  his  hand 
And  bade  him  welcome  to  Immanuel's  Land." 


[67] 


MY  SHINGLE  ROOF 

Battalion  on  battalion, 

Brigade  upon  brigade, 

Rank  after  rank,  flank  touching  flank, 

They  wait,  all  undismayed. 

Never  was  such  an  army 

In  battle  line  arrayed ; 

Row  after  row  they  wait  the  foe,  — 

But  bear  no  shining  blade. 

No  banners  o'er  them  flying. 

No  thunderous  cannonade. 

No  roll  of  drums,  no  shrieking  bombs. 

No  bursting  of  grenade. 

But  braver,  truer  soldiers 
Ne'er  formed  on  esplanade. 
They  scoffs  at  fate,  in  silence  wait 
Time's  furious  enfilade. 

Winds  sweep  down  on  them  fiercely, 
But  never  a  renegade 
Slips  from  his  place  or  hides  his  face 
From  the  enemy's  cavalcade. 


[68] 


By  the  heat  all  bent  and  twisted, 
All  drenched  in  the  rain's  cascade, 
Tom  by  the  gale,  beaten  by  hail, 
Still  they  hold  their  barricade. 

And  we,  in  our  home  underneath  them, 
As  we  ponder  the  part  they  have  played. 
Have  our  hearts  a  glow?     Do  glad  tears  flow. 
As  we  think  of  them  there,  unafraid? 

Then  here's  to  the  battered  old  soldiers! 
All  honor  the  stand  they  have  made! 
Every  foe  held    aloof    on  the    slopes  of  my 

roof,  — 
Hats  off  to  the  shingle  brigade! 


[69] 


THE  VANISHED  SPIRIT 

I  SAW  her  here  but  yesterday,  Spirit  of  Summer, 

bright  and  warm  — 
O  whither  has  she  fled  away  with  all  her  graces 

multiform  ? 
But  yesterday  I  felt  her  breath,  sweet  with  the 

scent  of  fern  and  pine  — 
To-day,  one  whispers  of  her  death  and  even  the 

sun  forbears  to  shine. 

She  was  too  fair  to  die,  too  fair;  she  seemed  of 
life  a  very  part, 

Sweet  Spirit,  wandering  everywhere  but  always 
shrined  within  my  heart; 

Beyond  the  brook,  beside  the  wood,  where 
meadows  blushed  with  blossomed  clover  — 

O  all  the  earth  was  warm  and  good  with  Sum- 
mer's Spirit  hovering  over. 

The  daisies  and  the  golden  rod,  the  jasmine  and 

the  meadow  sweet  — 
How  well  they  knew    the    way    she  trod,    how 

watched  they  for  her  coming  feet ! 
They  droop  and  pine  with  grief    to-day,  they 

shiver  in  the  Autumn  storm  — 
O  whither  has  she  fled  away.  Spirit  of  Summer, 

bright  and  warm.? 


[70] 


BUILD  NOT  THINE  EARTHLY  HOME 
SO  FAIR 

Build  not  thine  earthly  home  so  fair, 

So  filled  with  things  which  may  thy  soul  delight, 

Lest  thou  forget  that  Mansion  in  the  skies 

Which  ever  lies 

Beyond  thy  sight. 

Let  not  earth's  music  dull  thy  listening  ear 
To  those  sweet  tones  which  float  forever  down 
From  that  far  Sphere, 
As  though  to  drown 

The  Noise  of  life  which  thou  mayest  hold  too 
dear. 


[71] 


NIGHTFALL  ON  THE  LAKE 

A  DROP  of  dew  within  the  rose, 

One  star  lies  in  the  West; 

And  mirrored  in  the  lake  one  shows, 

That  in  the  zenith  burns  and  glows  — 

Diamond  upon  my  lady's  breast. 

The  far  off  cries  of  whip-poor-will 

Faint  wandering  echoes  wake,  and  hill 

Sends  answer  back  to  hill.     The  brake 

Stirs  gently  where  the  ripples  kiss 

And  die.    Upon  the  pebbled  shore 

A  boat  grounds  softly.     Now  an  oar 

Stirs  the  still  waters  far  away 

In  the  deep  shadows  on  the  bay. 

The  fragrant  breath  of  night  drifts  down 

The  wooded  slopes.    The  soft  wind  stirs 

Among  the  lifted  heads  of  firs 

And  pines.     The  low-browed  mountains  frown 

Upon  the  Lake  asleep  below. 

But  guard  her  with  a  jealous  care. 

As  knights  of  old  their  lady  fair. 

Beside  the  road  that  creeps  around 

The  slumbering  water,  cattle  stray ; 

Faint  and  still  fainter  comes  the  sound 

Of  tinkling  cow  bells  low  and  sweet 

Across  the  water  of  the  bay  — 

Meet  Angelus  for  the  closing  day. 


[72] 


Dear  Lake!  In  memory  oft,  our  feet 
Shall  tread  again  that  happy  strand, 
Or,  on  her  bosom,  we,  content. 
Shall  live  again  the  days  we  spent. 
Thrice  happy  days !  But  if  Fate  cries 
"  It  shall  not  be !  "  or  Love  denies 
To  you  and  me  the  boon  we  crave, 
Faith  whispers  low,  "  A  fairer  wave 
Breaks  yonder  on  that  Heavenly  shore! 
There  all  shall  meet  and  sandaled  feet 
Find  rest  beside  the  crystal  tide 
That  laves  the  golden  street." 


[73] 


THE  LIVING  FLAG 

O  wONDEOUs  fair  was  the  sight  we  saw 
And  it  thrilled  us  through  and  through, 
For  there,  at  the  doors  of  the  courts  of  law, 
Was  the  red,  the  white  and  the  blue, 

A  living  flag !  our  flesh  and  blood, 
It  spread  before  our  eyes ; 
Tear-dimmed  before  that  sight  we  stood, 
'Neath  the  fair  October  skies. 

Henceforth  those  steps  of  carven  stone 
That  front  the  coming  day. 
Are  sacred  as  the  cross  whereon 
The  Crucified  once  lay. 

Makers  of  law!  when  next  you  tread 
That  way  of  the  entering  in. 
Go  softly,  with  uncovered  head. 
And  purge  your  hearts  of  sin ; 

For  twice  a  thousand  mothers'  tears 
Baptized  the  fabric  fair. 

Of  which  was  wrought,  throughout  the  years, 
The  living  banner  there  — 


[74] 


And  twice  a  thousand  mothers'  pain 
Has  hallowed  all  the  spot 
Whereon  its  priceless  folds  have  lain  — 
Defile,  degrade  it  not! 

O  wondrous  fair  was  the  sight  we  saw 
And  it  thrilled  us  through  and  through, 
To  see  at  the  doors  of  the  courts  of  law, 
The  living  red,  white  and  blue ! 


[75] 


THE  ROOM  BEYOND 

"Where's  Mother?"  cries  my  little  child  to- 
day 
And  I,  impatient  at  her  noise,  though  fond, 
Bid  her  be  quiet ;  then,  more  softly,  say, 

"  Your  mother  rests,  child,  in  the  room  beyond." 

"  Where  are  our  loved  ones  ?  "  is  the  cry  which 
breaks 
From  anguished  hearts  when  Death  has  cut 

the  bond 
Between  us;    and    'tis    Faith    quick    answer 
makes,  — 
"  They  rest  and  wait  you  in  the  Room  Beyond." 


[76] 


THE  WINDING  OF  THE  CLOCKS 

There's  a  scene  I  oft  recall  when  Sunday  morn- 
ing comes  around, 

And  I  lie  abed  and  listen  to  the  ticking  of  the 
clocks ; 

And,  as  I  listen,  thought  goes  back  to  child- 
hood with  a  bound, 

And  one  old  door  in  memory's  hall  that  ceaseless 
tick  unlocks. 

I  can  see  as  though  'twere  yesterday  and  I  a 

child  again, 
Among  the  countless  pictures  hung  for  those 

dear  walls'  adorning. 
One  that  stands  out  from  the  others,  bright  with 

joy  and  dark  with  pain. 
Of  my  father  as  he  wound  his  countless  clocks 

on  Sunday  morning. 

Much  I  wondered  in  my  boyhood  why  so  many 

clocks  he  had, 
For  I  never  saw  in  other  homes  the  half  of  those 

he  owned; 
Nor  a  clock  that  could  compare,  or  so  it  seemed 

to  me,  a  lad. 
With  the  great  tall  one  I  loved,  which  seemed  to 

me  the  sweetest  toned. 


[77] 


He  would  take  me  with  him  often  when  he  went 

around  to  wind  them, 
And  I  never  thought  then  how  the  scene  would 

linger  through  the  years ; 
But  all  clocks  remind  me  now  of  him,  no  matter 

where  I  find  them. 
And  their  hands  point  back  to  childhood's  time 

and  all  its  hopes  and  fears. 

One  dark,  rainy  Sunday  morning,  he  and  I,  to- 
gether standing, 

Watched  the  heavy  old  brass  pendulum  swing 
slowly  to  and  fro ; 

'Twas  the  tall  grandfather's  clock  that  stood 
upon  the  stairway  landing, 

With  the  bell  I  always  loved  to  hear  so  sweet  it 
was  and  low. 

Always  I  had  thought  my  father  harsh  and  stern 

and  void  of  feeling. 
For  he  seldom  showed  to  any  one  the  love  his 

heart  might  know; 
But  to  me,  this  rainy  Sunday,  came  a  sudden 

brief  revealing 
And  it  smote  my  tender  boyish  heart  as  one 

might  strike  a  blow. 


[78] 


We  had  stood  for  some  time  silent,  he  with  hands 

upon  my  shoulder, 
And  the  ticking  of  the  old  clock  blended  with  the 

beating  rain; 
Somehow,  as  we  stood  there  watching,  silence 

seemed  to  make  me  bolder. 
And    I    glanced    up    in    his    face   but    quickly 

dropped  my  eyes  again. 

For  my  glance  had  caught  the  shining  of  big 

tear  drops,  all  unshed. 
And  his  mouth  was  tense  with  feeling  and  his 

face  with  grief  was  marred ; 
Quickly  stooping  down  he  drew  me  to  his  breast 

and  stroked  my  head. 
Then  flung  both  his  arms  around  my  little  form 

and  squeezed  me  hard. 

Not  a  word  he  spoke  and  never  have  I  known 

just  why  was  given 
That  brief  glimpse  of  love  and  feeling  which  I 

saw  in  him  that  day; 
Nearly  forty  years  have  vanished  since  he  went 

his  way  to  Heaven, 
But  the  memory  of  that  morning  shall  forever 

with  me  stay; 


[79] 


For,  when  cometh  Sunday  morning,  and  I  listen, 

as  to  singing, 
To  the  ceaseless  tick,  tick,  ticking  which  fond 

memory's  door  unlocks, 
I  can  see,    as    though    'twere    yesterday,    that 

shadowy  portal  swinging. 
And  again  I'm  with  my  father  as  he  stands  and 

winds  his  clocks! 


[80] 


THE  CHILDLESS  WOMAN'S  CRY 

No  CHILD !  O  pitying  Christ,  why,  through  these 

years, 
Hast  Thou  that  priceless  gift  to  me  denied. 
Though  often  I  have  plead  with  Thee  and  tears 
The  greatness  of  my  grief  have  testified? 

Nightly    I've  dreamed  these  longing  arms  have 

held 
A  tiny  form  whose  eyes  were  like  my  own; 
Then  waked,  to  find  the  vision  sweet  dispelled. 
And  I  with  mocking  sorrow  left  alone ! 

O  there  are  some,  dear  Lord,    whose    arms  are 

filled. 
And  still  to  them  Thou  sendest  more  and  more, 
While  I  am  childless!  Deem  me  not  self-willed. 
But  give,  O  Thou  whom  sweet-faced  Mary  bore, 

Give  me  one  only  child !  Birth-pains  were  sweet 
And  death  itself  a  gift  I'll  gladly  take 
May  I  but  feel  my  baby's  heart  throbs  beat 
Against  my  own ;  feel  clinging  lips  that  slake 
Their  need  at  generous  breasts,  dry  all  these 

years. 
O  Thou  who  wast  a  child !  For  His  dear  sake 
Grant  me,  at  last,  surcease  of  these  sad  tears. 


[81] 


AT  THE  YEAR'S  END 

The  house  is  still !  Those  whom  I  love  have  gone 
To  rest,  and  sleep  has  claimed  them  for  her  own. 
The  house  is  stiU:  and  yet  full  many  a  sound 
Falls  on  the  listening  ear.    Up  from  the  ground 
The  snow  is  caught  and  on  the  midnight  gale 
Goes  swirling  through  the  air  and  lips  grow  pale 
When  suddenly  it  dashes  'gainst  the  pane 
As  though  the  shrieking  wind  would  entrance 
gain. 

In  cheerful  contrast  with  the  world  outside 
I  watch  the  glowing  logs  within  the  wide 
Old  smoky  fireplace,  while  the  flame's  soft  lap 
Makes  pleasant  music.    Now  a  quick,  sharp  snap 
Beneath  the  porch  tells  of  the  heaving  frost. 
In  a  far  corner  where  the  light  is  lost 
Among  the  shadows,  lurks  a  prowling  mouse, 
Waiting  his  chance  to  search  the  sleeping  house. 

The  old  clock's  solemn  tick  marks  steadily 
The  march  of  time  toward  eternity, 
And  I  am  minded  that  the  hour  is  near 
Which  ends  the    old  and   brings  the    glad  new 

Year. 
I  sit  alone  and  with  a  thoughtful  heart 
Recall  the  vanished  days,  setting  apart 
Each  in  its  turn  and  noting  how  the  good 
Or  evil  marked  the  hours.    Some  of  them  stood 

[82] 


In  sharpest  contrast  with  the  rest.     Dark  days 
There  were,  when  Nature's  face  and  heart  all 

haze  — 
Enwrapped,  reflected  well  my  own  sad  mood. 
And  seemingly  the  world  held  nothing  good. 
Then  there  were  other  days  when,  like  a  song, 
The  hours  seemed  but  to  sing  themselves  along, 
And  never  was  the  sky  so  clear  a  blue ! 
Well  do  I  know,  to-night,  that  ever,  through 
Dark  days  and  bright,  a  Father's  clasping  hand 
Was  leading  me,  as  toward  the  promised  land 
In  days  of  old,  it  led  His  chosen  ones. 
Ah !  well  for  us  if  we,  acknowledged  sons 
Of  His,  would  take  Him  at  His  word.     Then 

might 
There  be  for  us  no  more  recurring  night 
And  day  of  doubt  and  faith  but  that  sweet  trust 
Which  children  have  in  us. 

A  bitter  gust 
Brings  from  the  east  the  sound  of  chiming  bells 
And  glancing  upward  at  the  clock,  it  tells 
Me,  with  both  hands  upraised  as  if  in  prayer, 
"  The  New  Year  is  at  hand;  the  old  is— there!  »* 


[83] 


THE  LIVING  LINCOLN 

"  She  is  not  dead  but  sleepeth."    Thus  the  Lord 
To  those  who  mourned  and  wept,  long  years 

ago 
Beside  the  bier  of  one  by  death  laid  low. 
But  even  death  was  vanquished  by  His  word 
And  when  He  spake,  bidding  the  maid  arise, 
Her  willing  soul  came  back  from  Paradise 
And  life  and  health  looked  from  her  opening 

eyes, 
Obedient  to  the  living  Voice  they  heard. 

Thou,  Lincoln,  art  not  dead !  We  call  thy  name 
And  lo !  Out  of  the  past  thou  dost  arise. 
And  once  again  those  sad  and  tender  eyes 
Where  shone  the  truth  with  pure  and  steady 

flame 
Look  in  our  own.     We  see  thy  grief -scarred 

face 
Where  years    of  war    had    left    their  lasting 

trace,  — 
The  rugged,  homely  face  which  oft  became 
The  butt  of  fools  and,  to  their  lasting  shame. 
The  jester's  sport,  the  target  of  buffoons. 

We  listen  and  across  the  stretch  of  years, — 
Soft  as  the  lullaby  the  mother  croons, — 
Cometh  thy  voice  and  into  willing  ears 


[84] 


Findeth  sure  entrance.     Heart    and    soul  are 

thrilled 
As  by  some  sweet  and  well  remembered  strain, 
Dear    to    our    youth    and    now  heard  once 

again,  — 
Echoes  of  voices  loved  but  long  since  stilled. 

Thou  livest  still!  Not  more  the  gracious  sun 
Doth  bless  the  earth  which  soon  he  shall  have 

won 
From  Winter's  icy  grasp  than  doth  fond  mem- 
ory 
Warm  us  and  cheer  to-day.    O  rare  sad  smile. 
Flashing  like  sunshine  o'er  the  stern,  set  face ! 
O  face  where  sorrow  dwelt,  but  never  trace 
Of  anger,  passion,  hate,  resentment,  guile! 

We  may  not  call  thee  dead !  It  is  not  death 
To  leave  a  moldering  body  whence  the  breath 
Has  taken  flight  and  find  a  holy  shrine 
Set  up  in  every  loyal,  loving  heart 
Throughout  our  land !  Nay,  that  great  life  of 

thine. 
Till  time  shall  end,  is  of  our  lives  a  part. 
We  bless  the  day  that  marks  thy  humble  birth, 
Counting  our  land  the  favored  land  of  earth 
Because  it  nurtured  thee.    O  Man  of  men, 
Ne'er  shall  we  look  upon  thy  like  again ! 


[85] 


IF  ONLY- 


When  we  stand  looking  down  on  some  dear 

face, 
Death  having  done  his  work  and  gone  away, 
Scarce  can  we  find  it  in  our  hearts  to  say 

*'  'Tis  well ! "    but    we    would    have    our    dead 
retrace 
The  steps  that  led  from  us  away.    With  tears 
And  choking  voice  we  cry  aloud  and  say 

*'  Dear  heart,  come  back  for  just  one  little  day !" 
And  shudder  as  we  think  of  wasted  years. 
Ah,  could  we  only  look  far  down  the  way 
Which  we  shall  travel  with  our  well  beloved. 
And  could  we  only  realize  that  day. 
Swift  coming,  when  from  us  shall  be  removed 
Our  heart's  delight!    Then    often    would  we 

show 
The  love  we  feel  but  all  too  often  hide  — 
And  when  Death  comes  and  it  is  time  to  go, 
Almost  would  our  poor  hearts  be  satisfied. 


[86] 


DISCONTENT 

The  rose  that  blooms  within  my  garden  yonder 

Sigheth  ofttimes  — 

"  Might  I  but  scale  these    frowning   walls  and 

wander 
To  other  climes !  " 

There  is  no  heart  in  home's  safe  shelter  hiding 
But  sometimes  cries : 

"  O  that  I  were    some  otherwhere  abiding,  — 
Beyond  home  ties !  " 

Cold  are  the    winds    that    sweep  from    yonder 

mountain, 
O  sheltered  rose! 

From  many  a  homeless  heart  a  bitter  fountain 
Of  sorrow  flows. 


[87] 


THE  NEW  BOOK 

At  mid  of  yesternight  one  came  to  me 
As  by  my  burned  out  fire  I  sat,  and  thus 
He  spake :  "  Here  is  a  book  whose  leaves  are  fair 
And  clean  and  pure  as  is  a  virgin's  heart; 
Take  it,  —  thou  hast    no    choice,  —  and  thou 

must  write 
On  every  page ;  that  task  thou  may  est  not  shun. 
Remember,  too,  no  line  that  thou  shalt  write 
On  these  fair  pages  may  erased  be 
But  must  forever  stand,  and  shall  be  read 
By  all  thy  fellows  and  thy  God.    So  write. 
Therefore,  that  shame's  red  dye  stain  not  thy 

cheek, 
Nor  the  sharp  tooth  of  gaunt  remorse  sink  deep 
Into  thy  heart  when  thou  shalt  turn  thine  eyes, 
In  backward  glance,  upon  the  pages  where 
Thy  pen  hath  left,  indelibly,  its  mark." 


[88] 


O  SWEET,  MY  VALENTINE 

Unsatisfied  mine  eyes  had  roamed  afar 
Nor  lingered  long  on  sun  or  moon  or  star, 
But  when,  by  chance,   they  met   those  eyes    of 

thine. 
They  roamed  no  more,  O  Sweet,  my  Valentine! 

Mine  ears  had  searched  the  ether  many  a  year 
Nor  found  one  voice  than  others  yet  more  dear, 
But  when  they  heard  that  tender  voice  of  thine, 
The  long  search  ended,  Sweet,  my  Valentine ! 

Some  meed  of  bliss  my  lips  had  sought  in  vain 
And  to  their  parched  selves  returned  again. 
But  when  at  last  they  found  those  lips  of  thine, 
They  sought  no  farther.  Sweet,  my  Valentine! 

Vainly  my  heart,  with  tender  yearnings  filled. 
Beat  on  in  loneliness  until  there  thrilled 
Against  it  that  warm,  loving  heart  of  thine, 
O  heart  of  hearts,  O  Sweet,  my  Valentine  I 


[89] 


LINES 
Written  among  the  Ruins  of  St.  Pierre, 
Beneath  our  feet  unnumbered  thousands  lie 
Who  drank  but  once  of  Pelee's  poisoned  breath, 
Then,  sending  heavenward  one  despairing  cry. 
They  sank  in  silence  to  their  dreadful  death. 

No  chance  was  theirs  to  flee  impending  fate. 
For  Pelee  spake  but  once  and  all  was  o'er; 
And  like  a  blast  from  Hell's  wide  opened  gate. 
His  fiery  breath  rolled  downward  to  the  shore. 

Veiled  for  a  season  was  Heaven's  smiling  face. 
The  sun  withdrew  in  horror  from  the  sight. 
The  while  the  sea  fled,  quivering,  from  the  place. 
And  neighboring  mountains  trembled  in  their 
fright. 

O  city  resting  so  confidingly 

Beside  the  mountain,  towering  to  the  skies! 

O  happy  people  of  the  Southern  sea. 

Upon  whose  heart  no  thought  of  danger  lies ! 

To-day  thy  city  lies  in  ruined  heaps. 
Thy  dwellings  are  thy  people's  only  tomb ; 
The  sea  sings  softly  and  forever  keeps 
Her  faithful  watch  beside  thy  place  of  doom. 

Beneath  our  feet  unnumbered  thousands  lie 
Who  worked  and  loved  and  lived  without  a  care. 
And  only  crumbling  ruins  meet  the  eye. 
Where  once  lay  peaceful,  trusting  Saint  Pierre. 
[90] 


IT  IS  THE  SAME 

The  wind  that  drives  against  my  window  pane 

The  icy  rain  — 

That  makes  the  shivering  old    trees    rock    and 

groan, 
And  send  wild  moan 
Into  the  wintry  sky  — 
Tossing  gaunt  arms  on  high  — 
Is  this  the  wind  that  seems  so  kind 
When  June  her  joy  prolongs? 
That  fans  my  cheek  as  though  to  speak 
Some  message  past  all  uttering? 
That  like  the  faintest  fluttering 
Of  angel  wings,  its  echo  brings 
Of  long  forgotten  summer  songs. 
When  long  forgotten  summers  came? 
Is  it  the  same?     Is  it  the  same? 

The  Voice  that  bids  His  radiant  angels  go 

(O  sad,  sad  hour!) 

And  pluck  from  love's  fair  garden  here  below 

Its  fairest  flower,  — 

Is  it  the  same  that  bade  that  garden  bloom  ? 

Can  the  same  Voice  be  Blessing  and  its  Doom? 

Answers  the  Voice  of  Him  who  overcame  — 

"  The  Voice  that  gave  Me  life  in  Mary's  womb. 

Gave  Me  both  death  and  life  in  Joseph's  tomb, — 

It  is  the  same !    It  is  the  same !  " 


[91] 


JESUS  GARCIA'S  RIDE 

Jesus  Gaecia,  Hero,  died 
As  of  old,  that  other  One 
Who  for  man  was  crucified,  — 
Son  of  man  and  God's  dear  Son. 

His  own  life  he  might  have  saved, 
Had  he  loved  his  fellows  less ; 
Death  in  awful  form  he  braved, 
Proving  his  unselfishness. 

Not  with  nations  looking  on,  — 
Waiting  victory  or  defeat; 
Not  where  flashing  sabers  shone  — 
Not  to  drum's  inspiring  beat,  — 

All  alone  he  rides  at  Death, 
Gripping  hard  his  iron  rein ; 
Never  once  he  wavereth. 
This  brave  son  of  Mexic-Spain! 

Nacozari,  stricken  dumb. 
Saw  him  thundering  down  the  track, 
Nearer,  nearer,  watched  him  come, 
Grim  Destruction  at  his  back ! 


[92] 


Never  once  he  slackened  rein, 
Urged  his  steed  to  do  its  best, 
Swept  past  like  a  hurricane  — 
Nacozari  knows  the  rest. 

Jesus  Garcia,  Hero,  died! 
But  his  name  shall  never  die; 
Nor  the  story  of  his  ride 
Fade  from  grateful  memory ! 


J93t 


TO  MY  OLD  ARM  CHAIR 

In  the  business  of  life  we've  been  partners,  old 

friend, 
For  many  a  year,  for  many  a  year ; 
And  partners  we'll  be  till  the  business  shall  end, 
With  many  a  tear,  I  there,  and  you  here. 

How  often  I've  found  in  your  sheltering  arms. 
When  at  rest  there  I  lay,  at  the  close  of  the  day, 
A  solace  and  comfort  surpassing  the  charms 
That  would  lure  me  away,  that  would  tempt  me 
to  stray. 

And  sometimes,  when  sorely  beset  in  the  fight. 
When  foes  have  been  strong  and  the  hours  have 

been  long. 
Then,   your   back   to    mine,    we   have   fought 

through  the  night. 
And  we  vanquished  the  wrong,  met  the  day  with 

a  song! 

Stay  with  me,  old  friend,  to  the  close  of  life's 
day, 

And  when  the  lights  fade  and  the  shadows  in- 
vade. 

Let  me  rest  in  your  arms  where  so  often  I  lay. 

And  pass,  unafraid,  to  the  Valley's  dim  shade. 


[94] 


THE  ENGINEER 

With  his  hand  upon  the  throttle, 
With  his  eyes  upon  the  track, 
Thinking  only  of  the  safety 
Of  the  sleepers  at  his  back; 
With  the  lives  of  half  a  thousand 
In  the  hollow  of  his  hand, 
Hero  of  the  age  of  iron  — 
At  "  attention  "  see  him  stand. 
The  Engineer ! 

You  have  seen  him,  or  can  see  him, 

Any  day  or  any  night. 

And  your  eyes  have  never  rested 

On  a  more  worth-seeing  sight; 

Sticking  grimly  to  his  saddle. 

Urging  on  his  steed  of  steel ; 

Though  he  knows  that  Death  is  waiting 

For  the  turning  of  a  wheel,  — 

He  knows  no  fear! 

Fear?    He  never  knew  the  meaning 
Of  a  word  so  mean  and  base. 
But  his  courage  knows  no  measure. 
See  it  shining  in  his  face ! 
Seemingly  in  love  with  duty. 
As  a  bridegroom  with  his  bride. 
Hundreds,  yea,  a  thousand,  trust  him 
And  their  trust  has  deified 
The  Engineer! 

[95] 


Sing  not  of  the  brilliant  charges 
Of  your  far-flung  battle  line! 
This  man  hourly  charges  danger 
With  a  bravery  divine. 
Not  a  voice  to  cheer  him  onward, 
Not  an  eye  to  see  but  God's ; 
Not  the  sound  of  drum  or  bugle, 
Just  the  clanking  of  his  rods 
Comes  to  his  ear! 

Boring  into  unknown  blackness 
With  Cyclopean  eye  of  light; 
Reeling  off  the  miles  which  endless 
Stretch  before  him  into  night ; 
Watching  ever  for  the  signal 
Which  may  tell  of  waiting  death ; 
With  a  hand  that  feels  the  pulse  beats, 
Ears  that  note  each  panting  breath,  — 
The  Engineer! 

So  through  life  he  rides  at  danger. 
But  at  last    will  come  a  day 
When  ahead  will  flash  the  signal 
"  Stop !  Death  has  the  right  of  way." 
Pray  Thee,  Lord,  that  of  Thy  mercy, 
There  may  be  reserved  for  him. 
Place  on  high  among  the  angels,  — 
Seat  among  the  Seraphim, 
Brave  Engineer! 

[96] 


LOVE  AND  FRIENDSHIP 

Love,  like  the  summer  flower  that  in  my  garden 
blows, 

May  bloom  and  quickly  die; 

While  friendship,  like  the  vine  which  o'er  my  lat- 
tice grows, 

Shall  winter  storms  defy. 


[97] 


GROWING  OLD 

Mt  cat  grows  old.    The  sign?    Is  this,- 
For  years  when  bedtime,  mine  and  his, 
Would  come  around  he  seemed  to  know 
Somehow,  the  time  of  night,  and  so 
Would  hide  away  in  some  dark  place, 
Which  plainly  meant,  when  all  was  said, 
"  I'm  not  quite  ready  for  my  bed." 

But  lately,  long  before  the  hour 
Has  sounded  from  the  old  church  tower, 
He  sits  beside  the  cellar's  steep 
And  narrow  stair  that  leads  to  sleep, 
Begging  me  with  his  upturned  eyes 
And  with  his  vibrant  tail  that  tries 
So  hard  to  make  me  understand,  — 
Begging  that  I  put  out  my  hand 
And  do  the  thing  he  cannot  do,  — 
Unbar  the  door  and  let  him  through. 

So  we,  sometimes,  as  years  increase, 
Sigh  for  the  hour  that  brings  release; 
And  often  when  the  way  grows  steep 
Or  rough,  we  tire  and  long  for  sleep, 
And  for  the  Master's  lifted  hand. 
That  shall  admit  us  to  that  land 
Where  he  doth  shepherd  all  his  sheep,  — 
And  give  to  his  beloved,  sleep. 


[98] 


THE  OLD  BRICK  HOUSE  ACROSS  THE 
WAY 

'Tis  Christmas  night.  A  flood  of  moonlight  falls 
Upon  the  old  square  house  across  the  way, 
The  old  brick  house,  whose  solid,  well-built  walls 
Have,  for  a  hundred  years,  defied  decay. 
Another  hundred  might  have  tried  in  vain 
To  batter  down  those  walls  or  entrance  gain 
Through  the  stout  door  that  shut  the  wind  and 

rain 
Of  summer,  and  the  winter's  driving  snow 
From  those  within,  but  built  for  use,  not  show, 
The  modern  houses  standing  near  cried,  "  Slow  \ 
Old-fashioned !  Tear  the  old  house  down ! "  and 

so 
The  landmark  of  a  century  must  go ! 
The  roof  is  off,  and  all  the  windows  gone ; 
The  rafters  fling  black  shadows  to  the  floor 
That  lies  so  strangely  bare  and  ghastly  white 
Through  the  long  hours  of  the  December  night. 
No  sound,  no  movement,  save  one  chamber  door 
That  creaks  upon  its  rusty  hinge,  and  throws 
Slow  moving  shadows  when  the  night  wind  blows. 
The  hour  is  late,  but  from  my  window's  height, 
Looking  upon  the  beauty  of  the  night, 
I  see,  through  swift-transforming  mists  of  tears, 
That  ghastly,  moon-lit  skeleton  of  Home ; 
I  see  the  ghosts  that  throng  the  hundred  years. 


[99] 


Dead,  bygone  years.    Out  of  the  past  they  come, 
As  forms  loom  suddenly  in  fog  or  night, 
And  then  as  quickly  vanish  from  the  sight. 

I  see  the  ghost  of  that  first  year  when  two 
Came  hand  in  hand,  and  standing  at  the  door. 
Thanked  God  for  home.    How  fair  it  was !  How 

new! 
How  radiant  the  bride  as  she  passed  through 
The  welcoming  home  door,  and  was  lost  to  view ! 
Vanish  the  year!     Another  takes  its  place, 
And  through  the  mist  I  see  another  face, 
A  dainty,  fairy  face.     How  soon  'tis  gone  — 
How  fast  the  phantom  years  come  crowding  on, 
And  how  they  fill  with  faces  new  and  forms 
That  shift  and    drift    like  clouds    in    summer 

storms. 
Out  of  the  Past  they  come,  but  whither  go.'' 
And  why  are  some  so  radiantly  bright. 
While  others  seem  to  merge  into  the  night 
And  be  its  counterpart.?     Burdened  with  woe 
Are  these,  and  my  unwilling  eyes  see  Death 
With  sorrow's  garments  trailing  on  the  wind. 
Then  more  bright  years,  but  as  I  look  upon 
Their  fading  brightness  they  are  quickly  gone — 
So  fleet  is  Time  when  to  his  children  kind. 
The  wintry  wind  sweeps  through  the  wide  old 

street. 
Making  the  aged  elm  trees  moan  and  rock. 

[100] 


Far  off  I  hear  the  old  cathedral  clock 
Strike  twelve,  and  as  the  last  note  softly  dies, 
The  moon  goes  out,  and  now  the  old  house  lies 
Deep  in  the  shadow  of  a  passing  cloud. 

As  darkness  makes  the  phosphored  dial  show 
More  clearly  to  the  weary  watcher's  eyes. 
So  now  an  old-time  picture  stands  revealed 
Against  the  blackness  of  the  clouded  skies. 
And  ghostly,  vanished  years  their  secrets  yield. 
I  see  the  house  as  on  old  Christmas  nights 
It  stood  adorned  with  flowers,  ablaze  with  lights ; 
Cheerful  with  fires  that  cast  their  ruddy  glow 
Out  where  the  old  post  road  lay  deep  with  snow. 
Dim  spectral  forms  fill  every  room.     The  fair. 
The  brave,  the  young,  the  old  are  gathered  there. 
And  see !  The  ghosts  of  that  first  happy  pair 
Receive  their   ghostly   guests   with   welcoming 

smile. 
Standing  before  the  fireplace  where,  the  while, 
The  fire  burns  on  and  on  but  grows  no  less ! 
A  happ3^  pair,  but  O,  how  older  grown ! 
A  loving  pair ;  I  note  the  soft  caress 
She  gives  the  white-haired  groom ;  nor  I  alone, — 
Children  and  children's  children  gathered  there 
Make  sly  and  jocund  comment  and  the  fair 
Old  bride  protests  her  right.     A  happy  pair! 
They  are  not    old   to-night;   love    keeps    them 

young, 

[101] 


And  as  I  watch  them  move  about  among 

The  merry  guests  that  crowd  each  spacious  room 

I  wonder  which  is  happier,  bride  or  groom. 

O  ghost  of  happiness,  seen  through  falling  tears ! 
O  ghost  of  love  that  blessed  the  hundred  years ! 
O  fireside  ghosts  of  happy  Christmas  days ! 
This  is  the  end !  To-morrow  earth's  highways 
Shall  be  your  trysting  place,  for  the  old  home 
Shall  vanish  utterly  and  nevermore 
May  you  on  Christmas  nights  together  come. 
And,  as  to-night,  with  one  another  meet 
There,  in  the  old  brick  house  across  the  street. 


[102] 


THE  TREE  OF  THE  CROSS 

A  Legend 

Once  when  I  wandered  in  a  silent  wood 
With  eyes  uplifted  to  the  mighty  trees 
That  people  those  dim  realms  of  solitude  — 
Grim  guardians  of  Nature's  mysteries  — 

My  thought  turned  backward  to  an  olden  time 
And  older  country  by  the  sacred  sea,  — 
Dwelling  on  that  which  was  the  age's  crime, 
The  age's  blessing  to  humanity ; 

And  from  much  thinking  of  the  cross  where 

He 
Laid  down  his  life  I  came  to  think  at  last 
Of  one  thing  only,  the  accursed  tree 
From  which  the  cross  was  fashioned,  and  its 

past. 

Did  it,  like  these    around    me,    spring  from 

earth? 
Did  it,  like  these,  through  ripening  centuries 

grow  ? 
Or  did  it  have,  Minerva-like,  its  birth 
Full  grown,  inheritor  of  awful  woe? 
Was  it  well  favored?  Had  it  aught  of  grace. 


[103] 


Or  was  the  curse  of  Heaven  its  only  boon? 
Clustered  the  fragrant  wild  flowers  at  its  base  ? 
These  questions  asked  my  heart  from  morn  till 
noon, 

And  when  the  lengthening  shadows  eastward 

crept, 
Wearied,  I  threw  myself  beneath  a  tree 
To  rest,  and  as  I  rested  must  have  slept. 
And  as  I  slept  this  legend  came  to  me,  — 

Upon  that  night  when  Mary's  Child  was  born 
Beneath  the  Star  which  hung  o'er  Bethlehem, 
A  little  tree  stood  shivering  in  the  wind. 
Within  a  wood  outside  Jersualem. 

The  mother  tree  was  O  so  fair  and  tall. 
And  stately  as  a  ship  upon  the  sea ; 
Her  little  one,  so  helpless  and  so  small, 
The  tiniest  tree  in  all  the  wood  was  he. 

Down  through  the  latticed  leaves  a  strange 

new  light 
Made  flickering  shadows  underneath  the  trees, 
And  on  the  stillness  of  the  winter  night 
There  fell  the  strains  of  Angel  melodies. 

"  O  Mother,  what  sweet  music  do  we  hear? 
Why  do  the  angels  sing  in  yonder  sky?  " 
And  though  the  mother's  heart  was  sick  with 

fear 
She  said,  "  They  sing  my  baby's  lullaby." 

[104] 


"  O  Mother,  why  has  God  hung  in  the  sky 
That  bright  new  star  that  makes  the  shadows 
here?" 

"  Thou  shalt  know  all  when  thou  art  tall  as  I, 
Now  sleep,    my  child,    thy    mother    watches 


"  But  Mother !  see  how  dark  my  shadow  shows 
Upon  the  ground,    and   how    my    arms  have 

grown! 
Now  you  are  trembling  though  the  night  wind 

blows 
So  gently:  Why?  "     "  O  hush  and  sleep,  my 
own!" 

O  prescient  mother  love !  O  wordless  fears ! 
O  cankering  grief  that  may  be  shared  with 

none! 
O  vista  through  the  three  and  thirty  years! 
O  death  in  life  and  life  but  just  begun! 

Upon  that  night  when  Judas  sold  his  lord. 
Above  Jerusalem,  the  listening  moon 
Heard  from  a  wooded  slope,  a  wailing  chord 
That  through  the  clustering  tree  tops  seemed 
to  swoon; 


[106] 


And  then,  upon  the  rising  wind  was  borne 
The  sickening  sound  of  woodman's  cleaving 

blade ; 
And  ere    the    crowing    cock    proclaimed    the 

morn, 
Three  rough-hewn  crosses  had  the  craftsman 

made. 

Three  rough-hewn  crosses  and  the  mother  tree 
Looks  on  and  knows  what  fruit  the  three  shall 

bear ! 
Knows  what  the  morrow's  midday  sun  shall 

see 
On  Calvary  while  Mary  watches  there ! 

*'  O  had  I  human  speech !  Then  should  her  ears 
Drink  in  what  comfort  it  were  mine  to  spare ; 
Then  should  she  know  my  heart,  through  all 

these  years, 
Held  of  her  grief  and  mine  an  equal  share ! " 

Upon  that  night    when    Joseph's    tomb  was 

sealed. 
Two  mothers  grieved  within  a  moon-lit  wood, 
And  each  to  each  the  mother  heart  revealed, 
Though  neither  knew  the  other  understood. 

For  all  unwittingly  had  Mary  come 
And  thrown  herself  beneath  the  mother  tree, — - 
Spent  with  her  sacrificial  grief,  and  dumb 
With  impotent  and  tearless  agony. 

[106] 


She  sleeps,  but  in  her  troubled  dreams,  again 
She  stands  before  the  cross  on  Calvary; 
She  hears  her  first  horn's  cry  of  mortal  pain, 
And  fears,  then  hopes,  that  death  may  pass 
Him  by. 

She  sees  the  hands  which  had  so  oft  caressed 
Her  own,    with    cruel,    blood-stained    spikes 

thrust  through; 
Then,  in  her  dream,  she  drew  upon  her  breast 

The  head  which  never  softer  pillow  knew. 

She  sleeps,  and  stirring,  as  the  night  grows 

chill, 
The  old  tree  softly  covers  her  with  leaves, 
While  o'er  the  upturned  face,  so  white  and 

still. 
The  kindly  moon  a  veil  of  shadows  weaves. 

At  dawn  she  wakes,  and,  as  her  opening  eyes 
Note  the  kind  deed  which    marked    the  chill 

night  hours. 
Clasps  with  her  arms  the  rough  old  trunk  and 

cries 
"  O,  next  to  me  He  loved  the  trees  and  flowers !  " 

"  And  yet  upon  a  tree  they  nailed  my  Son, 
And  I  had  thought  to  curse  all  such  as  thee. 
But  now,  because  of  this  that  thou  hast  done, 
The  cross  forevermore  shall  sacred  be." 

[107] 


The  night  had  fallen  when  at  length  I  woke, 
And  through  the  trees  I  saw  the  moonlight 

gleam ; 
In  soft  low  whispers  kindly  nature  spoke, 
Making  more  real  the  substance  of  my  dream ; 

And  hastening    homeward,    quickly    I  trans- 
ferred 
To  paper  all  the  legend  I  had  dreamed. 
So  real  to  me  was  every  spoken  word, 
So  sweet  and  tender  every  picture  seemed. 


[108] 


NOTES 


NOTES 

The  Lambs  and  The  Shepherd — ^Written  on 
the  occasion  of  a  church  communion  service  when 
twenty  young  people  united  with  the  church  and 
one  aged  woman,  unable  to  be  present,  had  the 
elements  administered  to  her  at  her  home. 

Memory — ^William  Watson's  "Fatal  Prayer" 
is  given  below. 

"  I  vanquish,"  said  the  youthful  King, 
"  My  foes  on  every  field ; 

Yet,  ye  strong  Gods,  to  one  vain  thing 

How  helplessly  I  yield: 

"  Behold  me  falPn  a  slave  each  hour 
To  some  dark  long-lashed  eye ! 
Oh,  grant  me.  Kings  of  Heaven,  the  power 
That  sorcery  to  defy." 

They  heard ;  and  from  their  ruthless  height 
The  dreadful  gift  was  thrown  — 
The  armour  against  Beauty's  might 
Worn  by  the  blind  alone. 

The  Living  Flag — During  the  Hudson-Ful- 
ton Celebration,  1909,  2,500  school  children  were 
massed  on  the  steps  of  the  state  capitol  at  Al- 
bany, N.  Y.  so  as  to  form  an  enormous  living 
flag. 

[Ill] 


Jesus  G^rcia's  Ride — On  Nov.  8,  1907,  Jesus 
Garcia,  engineer  on  a  mining  railroad  in  North- 
ern Mexico,  pulled  a  blazing  train  of  blasting 
powder  and  dynamite  past  the  little  town  of 
Nacozari  and  sticking  to  his  engine  till  he  had 
reached  the  open  country,  perished  when  the  ex- 
plosion came  which  utterly  annihilated  the  en- 
tire train. 


[iia] 


Ml919^2 


"  rf 
THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CAUFORNIA  UBRARY 


